


The Sorting Hat is Never Wrong

by S_Pyo



Series: Sherlock & John Are Probably Magical [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bullying, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Kid John Watson, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Other, POV Alternating, Possessive Behavior, Potterlock, Scheming Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Pyo/pseuds/S_Pyo
Summary: This is a story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meeting on the Hogwarts Express, their budding friendship and the rest of their first year at Hogwarts.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sherlock & John Are Probably Magical [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749268
Comments: 17
Kudos: 121





	1. A Lonely Platform

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as characters as much as I love J. K. Rowling's world of wizardry. This is merely a story I found myself compelled to write to satisfy my own desire to see two of my favourite things come together and exist. 
> 
> I had no beta and no one to ensure that things were accurate beyond my own research but I still must confess that there are some portions of her world that I built upon and tweaked for my tale. If you are taking the time to read this story all I can hope is you find even a fraction of the joy I experienced writing it while doing so.

John sat on one of the few benches along the old brick walls of platform 9 ¾ and tried to ignore the tightness in his chest and throat by focusing on what was carving away at his belly. At least the hunger pains of a growing boy of eleven hurt less than what threatened to smother him as he watched families tearily, but happily, wish their children a great year at Hogwarts.

John laid his head back against the bumpy bricks behind him and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe it; still couldn’t even after everything that had happened at home and to him after the woman, a witch, had come to his house and told him and his pure Muggle family what John was.

Magic was real and he was a witch, too. Wait, no, he wasn’t a girl so he was a wizard, right? Warlock? What were the boys called again? John shook his head and stared at the bright red steam train that idled and puffed in front of him. There was so much she had said and so much she hadn’t been able to say before his father had practically thrown her out of their house in fury before he had turned that anger on John. He brought his hand to his side and was still amazed the ribs that had been broken only days earlier were healed... by magic.

 _Hogwarts_ , a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry; a magical school full of magical people to learn magic that he was, magically, allowed to attend. John scrunched his eyes and fiercely rubbed away at his face with his arm covered in a thick wool jumper. He couldn’t start _crying_ here, he didn’t know any of these people. John looked around at the beaming children and proud parents and the weight in his chest seemed to reposition itself lower to assist in bullying his already ailing stomach. John was horribly jealous as he watched every child receive the love and encouragement and well-wishings that he knew he would never get from his own family and hated himself for it.

Then John saw him.

A gaunt boy with dark curls haloing wildly around skin so pale John thought the boy ill or a vampire. Wait, were vampires real now? John jerked his head side to side without blinking or losing sight of the solitary boy because that’s what drew John to him in the first place: he was by himself.

Just like John.

No mother fawning over him; fussing over his hair or clothes. No father resting a hand on his shoulder with a chest puffed up in pride. No siblings joining him on the adventure or glaring with impatient envy as they watched him go to magic school without them only because he was _older_.

As John watched the only lone boy (aside from himself) move from the solid wall entrance of the platform to climb the steps into the train and disappear from sight, he felt the ache in the pit of his stomach evaporate for he knew exactly what he was going to do.

He and that boy were going to be friends.

**~~*~~**

“Mind if I join you?” John tried his warmest smile, the one his mum always said lit up her world, and tried to not falter in its sincerity as he remembered the sound of her voice even as he tried his darnedest not to. The pale boy didn’t look up from his massive textbook and John pinched his lips between his teeth before just pulling his trunk in after him. He struggled a moment to lift the heavy thing up and into the luggage rack above before falling into the opposite seat of the small train compartment.

John sat, staring at the boy as he turned a page, and tightened his hand around the hem of his jumper before taking in a breath, “I’m John.”

Another page was turned.

John sucked in his bottom lip, nibbling as he spared a glance outside at all the parents and children still milling about saying their goodbyes, before looking back at the boy across him. Still receiving no acknowledgement, John slumped his shoulders and stared at the massive book that was propped up on the boy’s thighs and found his breath caught.

_Chemistry, the Central Science_

John blinked as a grin, wider than the one his mother warned him might come off as a bit creepy, split his face in two; it was a science textbook, not a magic one. _Science!_ Unable to contain himself, John leaned forward, “You’re a Muggle, too?” That got the boy’s attention and John stilled as a pair of blue eyes, pale and icy, looked up from the words on a page to stare at him. Despite the dark haired boy’s frigid eye colour, his gaze was anything but and John found himself getting warm, embarrassed, under the unrelenting intensity of the eyes scrutinizing him over the brim of the massive science textbook.

“No.”

The wattage of John’s smile waned as his brows collapsed in confusion, “Why’re you reading a science book if you aren't? Isn’t magic so much better?”

“No.”

“But can’t magic do anything?”

“No.” The boy closed the book, its heavy weight easily resting atop his legs and under elbows as his palms met below his chin, “Magic can be bent to one’s will; able to be influenced and controlled by the emotions and desires of the wizard using it.” The boy’s eyes flashed with excitement, “Science, on the other hand, bows to no one and _controls_ everything. It will always do what it wants regardless of what _you_ want. Science is the true reality of the world because it has always _been_ and we are the ones forced to adapt to it.”

John stared at the boy, riveted by the calm conviction that laced every word, “Wow, I didn’t know wizards liked science too.”

“They don’t.”

“Oh.”

Icy eyes widened a bit before narrowing, “But you do.”

John grinned, “Yeah, my favourite thing at school was always science. Well, maybe besides reading, but then again you read a lot in science too I suppose.” John was babbling, but he couldn’t stop himself, having another person to talk to was a comforting warmth for the cold loneliness in his heart. “The lessons and teachers were always the best. Last year Mr. Cestaro took us to the nearby forest to collect frogs to dissect them the next day.” John jabbed a thumb into his chest, “I got top marks for mine as I found and removed all the parts on the list without ruining them.”

The boy smirked, “Impressive.”

John swelled under the compliment, and felt lighter than he had in days. He was making a friend with a wizard (obviously as he said it himself that he wasn’t a Muggle like John) who loved science just as much as he did. How wonderfully lucky was he? John was quite proud of himself for deciding on _this_ boy to become friends with.“What about you? How were your public school science lessons? I bet you got to dissect a brain or a heart or something just as good. Mr. Cestaro wasn’t able to get more than just one cow’s heart and so he let us watch as he did it himself.”

One of the boy’s elegantly shaped brows arched up, “Why do you think I went to public school?”

“Well, you’re wearing your uniform now, aren't you?” John was smirking at his own cleverness.

“No.”

John stared at him, taking in the polished shoes with a gleaming buckle and charcoal socks, the pressed black slacks, the black sweater vest, crisp white long-sleeved button-up with a silk tie at the neck that so perfectly matched his eyes that John would have sworn was made with the sole purpose of doing so. John swallowed, the boy dressed better than when Dad went to church. Oh! John folded his arms across his chest and nodded with the wisdom of an experienced eleven year old, “Right, first day of school is a big deal. Gotta look extra sharp.”

“No.”

John gawked, “You… just wear all that normally?”

“No.” At John’s sudden frown of confusion, the boy smiled enough for it to cause a single crinkle at the corners of his eyes, “Usually I forgo the tie.”

John blinked, then snorted before succumbing to a fit of giggles. Clutching his stomach he settled down and wiped a tear from his own, nearly poking it out as a shrill shriek blared from the locomotive. With a chug and a lurch, the train started pulling away and John swiveled around to look out at the waving parents; his heart tightened as he noticed not a single pair of eyes were looking at their compartment windows. No one waving goodbye to John. No one waving goodbye to…

“Sherlock.”

John whirled, his ocean blue eyes meeting the frozen orbs of the boy sitting in the seat across, “Sorry?”

The boy’s lips flattened, “My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

John froze a moment before straightening up so high his back started to bend. He felt a prickling behind his eyes but grinned so hard in order to blind the boy - Sherlock - from spotting the tears that welled. “And I’m John. John Watson.”

And John watched as that signature smirk formed over intertwined fingers, “I know.”


	2. A Friendlier Train

In spite of everything, perhaps _because_ it was spiteful to associate himself with such a person, Sherlock found himself hopelessly intrigued by the little abandoned Muggle-born boy in front of him. 

John, an utterly common name among Muggles, was wholly undeserving of such a boring sounding name attached to such a not boring person. Blue eyes, startlingly clear and easy to read because they were so honest and open. Warm, richly complex blonde hair not many witches or wizards can lay claim to nowadays without the help of rather expensive potions. A face simple yet charming in a way that was calming to look at and even Sherlock was surprised at how easily he allowed himself to be soothed by its unassumingly peaceful appearance.

Yet the boy had been rather persistent to share the same compartment as him, and Sherlock hadn’t been annoyed as much as he usually was about other people _existing_ around him.

Sherlock smirked and listened to the blonde boy’s retelling of his years at a Muggle primary school. Learning science from professors that would have perhaps barely passed their graduate courses to become said science teachers. All of it was woefully childish in its difficulty and expectations but Sherlock couldn’t help but find himself enthralled by the sheer imagining of it all. 

What would it have been like for him if he was born to a Muggle family? No magic to interfere with his studies of chemistry. No high ranking Ministry father breathing down his neck to perform above and beyond what had been expected of his older brother. No mother lost amidst her stargazing of the potential futures that could have been had the past not robbed the Holmes family of their first born heir.

Sherlock was so lost in his own mental meanderings that he almost missed the question his riding companion had thrown out after finishing his story.

“What was your school like? I bet Magic Primary was awesome.”

Sherlock snapped back into focus and shrugged, “I wouldn’t know; I was homeschooled until I received my letter. Whatever others did is useless information and I never bother with useless information.”

John’s eyes widened into circles as did his mouth, “Wow! So like, you’ve been doing magic since you were a baby?”

Sherlock frowned, “No. Babies cannot _use_ magic. Magic doesn’t reliably manifest itself in a child until the age of seven.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” John’s head bobbed before stilling as a hopeful shine appeared in his eyes, “ _Can_ you do magic?”

Sherlock’s brows tightened, “Did I not just say I have been using magic since the age of seven? I should hope after four years I can _manage_ a few spells.”

Oblivious to the snark, John’s face brightened further as he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, “Could you show me?”

If it had been anyone else Sherlock would have refused. He wasn’t a _magician_ relegated to performing tricks for others’ amusement. But this was John, a Muggle-born who hadn’t been exposed to magic or etiquette or knew who Sherlock was to mean it as an insult to cast a spell for his entertainment; he didn’t know any better. And, normally, that would have annoyed Sherlock even more, ignorance is an abhorrent commonality among the general populous that Sherlock had long since resigned himself into having to suffer just to _survive_. But, again, this was _John_. John who had spun tales of bottle rockets and elastic-band planes; woven stories of tabletop volcanoes and eggshells turned to crystal; sung of metal ballerinas spinning on their own and using a potato to tell time.

And, if Sherlock was entertained by John, why couldn’t John be entertained by Sherlock?

So it was without much hesitation that Sherlock let the wand in his sleeve slide down into his hand as he mulled over which spell he would use to impress John. Settling on one, he lifted the wand up, leveling at John’s chest and smirked as John’s blue eyes widened and his face refused to decide if it was excited or terrified. Perhaps _awe_ was more apt.

_“Colovaria.”_

There was little fanfare to go along with the spell, merely a lightly shimmering breeze flowing from the tip of his dark wood wand to hit John square in the chest. Reflexively, which Sherlock found silly, John scrunched his face tightly as the magic began to wash over him. Starting from just above his heart, a blotch of soft blue spread and bled throughout the fibers of his wool jumper. It only took a few seconds, but once the wind died John peeked down at himself and gaped at the oatmeal jumper turned powder blue.

Sherlock lowered his wand and watched as John twisted and pulled at the fabric to check if every bit of the jumper was now blue. Sherlock inclined his head with lowered lids and raised brows, Father would have, at least, had to _acknowledge_ the success of the spell, even if he had to vocalize it.

“Brilliant!”

Sherlock widened his eyes at the dark blue orbs sparkling at him with excitement and felt his heart stop, “Really?”

John grinned, showing all his teeth, “Course it was! Absolutely bloody brilliant.” John was still beaming at him as he tugged at the hem of his jumper, “Love the colour too, how’d ya know?”

Sherlock blinked, clasping the other end of his wand on his lap as he dropped his gaze to it, “My... Your eyes.” Sherlock glanced back at John, “You stared at my tie far longer than the rest of my clothing, meaning you are partial to the colour blue but that shade of blue would have been far too pale for your complexion so I adjusted it.” 

John’s smile faltered a bit, “Oh, was I staring that much? Sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head, looking at the blonde boy across him with his full attention, “No, it’s… Fine.”

John’s smile turned genuine, “Great.”

Sherlock watched as John’s gaze shifted to his hands, his wand, and immediately tensed. _Stupid!_ He should have known better than to show his wand so blatantly to someone who he was, unbelievably, managing to get along with. Every single person who-

“That’s your wand; the one that chose you, right?” Sherlock pulled himself out of his inner worries to find, to his horror, that John had managed to slip beside him on the seat to lean over and peer closer at the wand in his lap. “It makes sense, looks just like you.” At John’s continued inspection, Sherlock merely stared at the top of John’s head and tried to process the blonde’s comment.

“W-what do you mean?” Sherlock tightened his grip on the dark wood.

John reached out and pointed at it, “It’s long, nearly black and looks as neat as that tie you're wearing.” John straightened to meet Sherlock’s gaze, “That piece of glass at the end is wicked, too. I can't tell you how many wands that Ollivander guy had me hold but I didn’t see a single one made with anything but wood.” John flashed a rueful smile, “I wish mine looked half as good as yours. It’s posh, just perfect for you.”

Sherlock blinked, lips parted in utter disbelief at what he had just heard: John _complimented_ his wand. _His_ wand, an elder wood wand, the unluckiest, ficklest, ruinous-est wood a wand could be, and John wished his was half as good. Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but he felt guilty; he wouldn’t wish his wand on anyone, let alone this little Muggle-born next to him. He felt compelled to explain himself, give excuses for John to rethink his wish. “The wand didn’t come with the lens.”

Sherlock watched in alarm as the words he thought could discourage had the opposite effect.

Eyes widening further, expression brightening, John blurted out, “No way, you put it there? Could you do the same to mine? Or, wait, do I have to do it because it's mine? Could you show me how?”

With his plan seeming to fail, Sherlock didn’t know what to say next and all he could seem to do was nod once. Which only seemed to spur John on further.

“I don’t know if I want glass though, maybe something else… Oh! Yeah a crystal would be ace, like Galndalf’s staff before he became The White.” John had leaned back, relaxing casually beside Sherlock that was making something unsettlingly warm spread in his chest. 

Not wanting to think about how comforting John’s presence was becoming to him, Sherlock latched onto the portion of John’s words that made no sense, “Gandalf? What wizard is stupid enough to use a cumbersome staff over a wand?”

John’s expression dropped a moment before his whole face opened in wide disbelief, “What!? You don't know who Gandalf the Grey is? Have you never seen The Lord of the Rings?”

Sherlock frowned, “ _Seen?_ Is that one of those… Muggle movies?”

John’s face fell in what Sherlock refused to accept as sadness, “Yeah, it is. Three of them, actually.” John jammed both his hands between his legs and avoided Sherlock’s annoyed glare, “I would have thought it’d be pretty popular with wizards. What with all the magic and dragons and elves and stuff.”

Sherlock didn't like seeing John upset, in no small part because he couldn’t remove himself from being the cause, and brought his expression back into a more neutral state, “Considering how much The Ministry encourages Muggles to misinterpret the wizarding World, you cannot rely on the words of Muggles when relating to magic.”

John’s forehead wrinkled as he processed Sherlock’s words. Seeming to understand, he turned to Sherlock and two shades of blue met, “The Ministry is like, the wizard government, right?” At Sherlock’s affirmed nod, John copied him, “Ah, yeah, that makes sense I guess. If I saw a guy holding a polished stick at Tesco I would think he was less a wizard than a loon with a staff.” Sherlock merely smirked, pleased with John’s understanding behind it and also at the idea of a wizard’s most prized possession, their most vital tool, relegated to being nothing more than a polished piece of wood. John’s expression lost its melancholy and turned to a curiosity that Sherlock was more than willing to encourage, “So are elves real? What about dragons?” 

Sherlock nodded, “Yes. Dragons are powerful beasts and are strictly controlled and monitored. Elves on the other hand, are more like servants and housekeepers.”

John’s eyes bulged out, “Servants?”

Sherlock brought his brows together, “Yes, they are quite common among wizard families. Mine has had several.”

John seemed to mull that over in silence; his forehead and eyebrows competing for dominance before a soft knock followed by the slide of their compartment’s door pulled his attention away. Sherlock turned and was greeted by a warm smile from a greying witch pushing a trolley of snacks.

“Hello, dearies. Would you like anything from the trolley? I’ve got everything from chocolate frogs to Bertie's and _The Daily Prophet_ if you’ll be wanting something to read.” 

Sherlock scowled, ready to send away the nuisance from his and John’s conversation when he heard a soft grumble and saw the nervous shifting of the boy beside him from the corner of his eye. Sherlock glanced at John and didn’t let up his frown of displeasure as John tried to pretend that he hadn’t grabbed at his stomach in reaction to the sight and smell of food. “You’re hungry.”

John flushed, from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, “No, I’m-” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John clamped his mouth shut before shifting a look toward the food heavy cart filled with such longing it nearly suffocated Sherlock. John returned his gaze and nodded.

Sherlock took two Galleons from his pocket and held them out to the witch, “One of everything; excluding the Daily.”


	3. The Inevitable Pair

John didn’t enjoy the chocolate frog at all; it didn’t matter how much Sherlock assured him the creature wasn’t (and had never been) alive, the fact that it seemed to want to escape from John’s hands, escape its fate, evaporated any desire John had for the chocolate amphibian. However; John devoured everything else with a ravenous curiosity that would have had John feeling horribly embarrassed if it weren't for the fact that his new friend seemed extremely interested in how John reacted to it all.

Sherlock had smirked when John had discovered the harsh truth behind the name Every Flavour Beans, grinned when John’s ears erupted with twin plumes of steam and his face glowed bright red as a Pepper Imp had dissolved on his tongue and laughed when John began freaking out over the Fizzing Whizzbee’s ability to let him float two inches off the floor.

“These are _amazing!_ ” John smiled as he struggled to suppress the perpetual sensation of falling while his butt wasn't able to touch the seat.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, the laughter lost, “They could hardly be considered _amazing_ as it is merely the slime of a Billywing sting they add to the candy that causes the minor levitation effect when consumed.” 

John turned to look at Sherlock’s irritated expression and couldn’t stop his laughter, “Well, excuse me Mr. Wizard, but this poor Muggle boy here has never seen candies do something so wonderful before in his life.”

Sherlock glared at him, “You are _not_ a Muggle.”

Startled by the venom in his tone, John’s smile fell, “But I was born-”

“A wizard being born to two Muggle parents does not make you a Muggle; it makes you Muggle- _born_.” Sherlock’s body straightened to a height that would have been looming if not for the two extra inches the Whizzbee’s gave him, “There is a difference.”

“But-”

Sherlock barreled over him, “Did a faculty representative from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry not arrive at your home barring a letter that granted you admittance into said school?”

John pinched his lips between his teeth, “Well, yes, but-”

“And did you not accept the offer and are now currently riding on the Hogwarts Express, which departed from platform 9 ¾ at London’s King’s Crossing Station, on your way to said school?”

“Well, yes-”

“And do you not have a wand that chose _you_ as its wielder of _magic_?”

Thoroughly through with being talked over, John steeled his spine, “Yes, but I’ve never used it! I don’t know the first thing about using it. All I did was go into a store, get fussed over by a bloody _odd_ old man who shoved box after box with wand after wand into my hand and told me to ‘give it a twirl!’” John clenched his fist around the bag of forgotten candies, “I had hardly opened the box before the bloke said, with all the wisdom of his years, ‘Ah, perfect. That’s your wand, boy, 10 Galleons.”

Sherlock regarded him a moment, silently and with a small smirk playing across his sharp face, before holding out a lanky hand to him. John recoiled slightly, looking at the open palm between them and Sherlock before reaching into the crushed bag of candy to share.

Sherlock blinked at the little red treat then snarled as he tossed it to the other side of the compartment, “No! Not the candy. Your _wand_. Let me see your wand.” When John made no movement for his pocket or sleeve or anything resembling a place one would keep a wand, Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes in the most dramatic way John had ever seen. “If you would let me inspect your wand, I can discern it’s make and tell you what type of magic you would be most adept at casting.” John’s heart skipped a beat as he looked hungrily at the pale fingers out before him. Sherlock tilted his chin toward him, “If you hurry I _might_ even bother to tell you a spell and help you practice it on our way to Hogwarts.”

John opened his mouth but quickly closed it as he stood up, littering the floor with wrappers, to get to his trunk resting in the rack above the other compartment’s seat. 

“I would call you an idiot but that would be too kind.” John jerked at his words, nearly pulling the heavy trunk awkwardly, and painfully, onto himself as he continued to tug at it. “First rule of being a wizard, John: never forget your wand.”

John grunted while trying to lift the heavy trunk but managed to squeeze a few words through his teeth, “I haven’t forgotten it, I only-”

“Semantics. You don’t have it _on_ you. The point is the same: do not be _without_ it.” 

John was about to bite back when the trunk he had been struggling to get over the short lip of metal lost all its weight and suddenly lifted itself into the air. John stopped, hand still clutching the handle before craning his head around to look at the boy sitting calmly behind him.

“Your efforts, while amusing, are ultimately time wasting,” Sherlock spoke with an arrogant smirk while holding his wand toward John’s trunk.

Regardless of how infuriating it was to be made a fool of, John couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter from escaping. He released the trunk and dropped to the floor as Sherlock guided the heavy trunk onto the seat before him. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“My pleasure, John.” 

_Git._ John bit the inside of his cheek as he unlatched the lid and flung it open. Rifling through folded clothes and textbooks, John found the cream coloured box nestled safely between several pairs of socks and pants. He carefully took up the box and wriggled off the lid to reveal a sturdy looking wand that, when John compared it to Sherlock’s, seemed far less impressive. John tried not to be embarrassed, even Sherlock had agreed the wand chooses its master and so its plainness wasn't John’s fault but anyone would know that, even if he hadn’t picked it himself, this plain wand had decided John was the perfect partner for it. _Plain. Boring. Ordinary._

_Unwanted._

John swallowed back the tightness that had returned to his throat and blinked back the stinging that threatened again.

“Come, now, John.” Sherlock appeared beside John as he hadn’t moved since opening his wand’s box and stared at it. “We only have a few more hours until we arrive…”

John looked up at Sherlock’s sudden intake of breath, and felt a cold iron weight settle into his gut at the boy’s stunned expression. “See, Sherlock, I told you it wasn’t-”

“Rowan wood.” Sherlock’s voice held a hint of soft reverence that John hadn’t expected from the boy. Sherlock gazed at the warm beige wood wrapped in thick oiled parchment as he carefully lifted his hand toward it, stopping just before contact, “May I?” 

John nodded stiffly and Sherlock carefully ran a finger down its entire polished length. As he came to the base of the bulbous hilt he picked it up to bring it closer to his eyes for inspection. John watched as Sherlock ceased acknowledging anything else in the small compartment; those piercing and pale blue eyes taking in every grain and line and reflection off his wand’s surface. John was so enthralled in watching Sherlock examine his wand he didn’t hear what had actually come out of his mouth, only that he had moved it. “Sorry, what?”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” Sherlock lowered John’s wand and took his own to place them side by side, “Wizards are a superstitious sort, John. What with Divination being considered a ‘science’ and prophecies regularly coming true, if one was to believe the Department of Mysteries.” John watched as Sherlock pressed their wands together, softly rolling them around each other before pulling them apart only to repeat their physical contact in several varied positions. “There are centuries of lore about wizards and their accomplishments, or failures, and at the heart of every tale is their most precious and vital tool: their wand.” 

Sherlock separated the wands again and instead of handing John back his own, Sherlock gave John _his_ posh wand to hold, “This has created, a sort of, generalized assumption regarding every type of wood and magical core used in wandmaking.” Sherlock turned to face him, finally settling those keen eyes onto John’s own, “My own wand, made of elder wood, is widely, and fervently, considered the most unfortunately unlucky wood one could use for a wand.” John’s eyes widened, and Sherlock merely shrugged, “It is speculation that the whole of the wizarding world holds merit to and there is little I can or want to do to combat it. The futility of it is quite daunting if one dwells on it for too long so I thought it best to not more than is absolutely necessary.” 

John stared down at Sherlock’s beautifully carved pitch wand and couldn’t understand how such an elegant design could be considered so unfavourable when compared to his unimaginative, and rather short, wand. “I don’t understand; your wand is bespoke while mine is just a stick with a big bump at the end.”

“You cannot think that way, John!” Sherlock spat at him and John was utterly shocked at the contempt in his voice, “You cannot belittle your wand; not a rowan wood, not one with the core of a Unicorn. However you handle others’ views toward your wand is your own battle to be fought but you _never_ battle your wand. Your wand will be your truest ally through anything and anyone.” Sherlock smirked ruefully, “Unless you have an elder wood wand of course.”

John was about to comment when Sherlock held out both his empty and the hand holding John’s wand. They traded and suddenly a gust of _something_ coursed through him similar to the day he had first picked up the wand at Ollivander’s. John looked at his wand, then to Sherlock who, to his amazement, was suffering under a similar rush of swirling air. 

John found himself unable to tear away his gaze when he saw Sherlock’s soft smile, “Our wands are made of the woods rowan and elder; a pair that all wizardkind know have an unparalleled affinity towards each other.” Sherlock held his gaze, smiling wide enough to reach his eyes, “I don’t make a habit of predicting the future but, my dear John Watson, I do believe our friendship is inevitable.”


	4. The First Problem

As much as Sherlock hated the assumptions wizards made about him and his wand, simply because it was of elder, he found himself unable to be anything but pleased that the ones about rowan were turning out to be accurate. 

John’s joy in acknowledging the inevitable was infectious and Sherlock didn’t want to resist its effect anyway. He had long been without someone to show any interest in who he was as most of the children he interacted with only did so at the behest of their parents who sought some selfish connection with his own. But John didn’t know them, didn’t know anyone in the whole wizarding world except for him. Sherlock might as well _be_ John’s whole world seeing as how his Muggle family had abandoned him at the first sign of him being different and he hadn’t bothered with anyone until he bothered Sherlock.

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t have felt pleased with that realization. Societal norms would dictate that he pity John’s abandonment, lament his loneliness and encourage an interaction with many different people. But with every story John told, every smile shone and every praise wholeheartedly given Sherlock became less inclined to care about how society expected Sherlock to act regarding John. However; once he laid eyes on John’s wand of rowan, the wand that had resonated with him in a way similar to his own, he knew he couldn’t ever let John go. Wouldn't ever let John go or get attached to anyone but him and his elder wand. The moment he held John’s wand in his hand, felt that feeling of belonging that he had never experienced even among his own blood, Sherlock knew he would never be willing to let John be anyone’s but his.

And Sherlock would be none but _John’s_.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock groaned as the Whizzbee hit John square in the nose. “I told you: you’re holding your wand _wrong_.”

John rubbed at the little welt that was beginning to form, “But I’m holding it just like you are!”

“Yes, but obviously that isn’t working; your wand motions are awkward. You aren’t gripping the wand properly; your hand isn’t comfortable holding it that way. Fix it.” Sherlock grabbed another candy from the bag in his lap and took aim at John, “Again.”

John was glaring at him, but Sherlock didn't even blink. John foolishly lifted his wand while holding it just as before and shouted, “ _Protego!_ ”

There was nothing wrong with his pronunciation (Sherlock had made him recite it for fifteen solid minutes before he even allowed John to pick up his wand to practice the motion) but Sherlock knew that slight shift in John’s wandline eliminated any chance of the spell’s success. The quiet slap and subsequent welt on John’s forehead confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion.

Sherlock frowned, “This isn’t working.”

John was still glaring at him beneath the hand he brought up to the newest throbbing addition to his face, “ _Obviously._ ”

“Looks like there’s no other way.” Sherlock sighed as he rose to his feet, suddenly towering over John’s bemused form, “‘Trial by Dragon’s Fire’ as they say.” He rolled his shoulders and pointed his wand at John, “Prepare yourself, John.”

Losing all colour from his face, John struggled to stand up in the cramped compartment, “Wait, Sherlock, I don’t think-”

Sherlock sucked in a breath, “ _Rictusem-_ ”

It was at that moment their compartment door slid open to reveal a brown haired boy with a black and yellow ‘P’ pinned to his chest. Everyone in the room froze before the newcomer turned stern, “Lower your wand, first-year, or I’ll make sure you don’t get off this train until it’s back in London.”

Sherlock stared back at the prefect, _Hufflepuff_ , and then turned to look at John’s terrified face before raising his eyes to the ceiling as he stowed away his wand. “There’s nothing to concern yourself with, prefect, we were merely working on our Shield Charm.”

The prefect’s expression didn’t soften, “So I hear. You boys have been making enough racket to have five separate students come to us complaining about the constant shouting.”

Sherlock glared at him, “These compartments have the quiet charm placed on them.”

“Yeah well, apparently, it isn’t strong enough to keep _you_ quiet.”

The muscle in Sherlock’s jaw pulsed as he and the Hufflepuff prefect fought to see who would be the first to break eye contact. John spoke in the tense silence, “Sorry, sir, it’s my fault.”

The prefect broke away first, turning to John with a slightly puffed out chest, “Yes well, you shouldn’t be wearing yourselves out trying to cast a new spell without the proper training. There will be plenty of time when you start your lessons at Hogwarts.”

“Don’t apologize to him John, if he thinks you can only learn magic while studying in a classroom he obviously won’t pass more than a handful of O.W.L.s and less than half as many N.E.W.T.s.” The brunette threw a fierce look toward him and Sherlock smirked, “And don’t call him _sir_ , he's only a prefect.”

“Oh and I suppose you can cast a right strong Shield Charm, then?” The prefect growled.

“Of course I can.” Sherlock’s grin turned mocking, “Elementary, really.” The older boy’s fists clenched at his sides and Sherlock knew he was forcing himself to keep from brandishing his wand. The boy certainly wanted to test Sherlock’s abilities; wanted to break him of his (in the prefect’s delusional mind) overestimation of his magical capabilities. And, Sherlock mused, if he was from Gryffindor, or even Slytherin, he might have done it, but, alas, he was only from Hufflepuff. Mustn’t break the rules, mustn’t make a scene, mustn’t be anything but an utterly predictable Hufflepuff.

“So... This spell is baby stuff?”

Sherlock looked at John, smirk gone, “I’ve already told you, John: babies cannot _do_ magic. But, yes, it is a rudimentary spell; one which all wizards should be able to cast if they wish to survive.”

John’s shoulders slumped as he looked at the floor, “And I can’t even do it.”

Sherlock stilled, a cold weight appearing in his gut as he found himself have difficulty swallowing, “John…” His new friend didn’t look up at his name and Sherlock pursed his lips, “You’ve perfected the incantation easily enough; we merely need to work on your wandline. I am confident once you figure out the proper way to hold your wand the spell will be flawless.”

“How can I expect to go to a wizard’s school if I can't even hold my bloody wand right?” John fell back into the seat cradling his face in his hand. “I’m going to be sent home.” John’s hand moved up into his hair and tugged at the strands as he doubled over as each word came out faster than the previous, “Oh hell, what am I doing to do? I don't have anywhere to go; I’m going to be homeless. I’m going to be alone.” To Sherlock’s horror, John choked out a sob, “I’m going to _die._ ”

“No, John. No.” Sherlock was on his knees in front of the hyperventilating blonde, “You aren’t going to die- well, yes you will die but not right now. “ John looked up, obviously on the verge of saying something and Sherlock growled at him, “Shut up. Everyone dies: you, me, the Minister of Magic, everyone. But, I can promise you one thing, you will _not_ be alone when you do so.”

John’s eyes and mouth widened, “You mean that?”

Sherlock smiled, “It’s inevitable.”

“Cut back on the drama, boys, bloody hell.” The prefect slid the door closed behind him as he stepped inside. “No one’s dying until their beard’s old and grey.” Both of them looked up as he squatted next to them. He looked at John, “Can you show me how you hold your wand?”

Sherlock bristled, “What could _you_ possibly know about-”

The prefect’s glare had even Sherlock snapping his mouth shut before turning back to John’s stunned face, “Please?”

John glanced between the older boy and Sherlock and it was only when he reluctantly nodded did John hold out his wand for the prefect to see. The boy only looked at him for a few seconds before scoffing and grabbing John’s hand to rearrange the placement of his palm and fingers. Another few moments of inspection and he nodded once before standing up, “There. Right, then, how’s that?”

Sherlock and John looked down at the wand in his hand, one in wonder and the other in scorn. The bulbous end had been firmly seated against John’s palm, allowing for his pinky and ring to curl around and meet the base of his thumb to brace it from below. This left the rest of his thumb and his middle and index fingers to extend further down the length of the wood as if he was pointing.

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by John’s grinning face as he flicked the wand without a tremor to be seen. “That feels much better!” John beamed at the older boy, “How did you know?”

Sherlock felt the boy could have rivaled Father with that look of smug satisfaction as he looked down on his kneeling form. “My family locates and harvests wand wood all over the globe, meaning I get to meet a lot of very accomplished wandmakers, of course.” The prefect looked at John with less blatant arrogance than he had with Sherlock, “Your wand is rowan wood, and the wider smooth knob on the end is because it’s rather short- there's nothing wrong with that mind-” He was quick to add at John’s crestfallen expression, “it just means your wandlines will be more precise with less wasted movement and effort when making them.” The boy smiled with far too much teeth, “Perfect for a dueler’s wand where the one with the better reaction can usually come out on top over wizards with more showy spells.”

Sherlock stood, fists at his sides, “Anyone who knows about rowan wood could recite a similar _lump_ of knowledge.”

The prefect folded his arms, “Oh, yeah? Is that why you were having him hold his wand like you do? Your wand’s a long one, I saw it. Bit too long for you right now, and certainly not how you hold a short one, so you best hope you grow into it otherwise it'll be a bit awkward for you when you start working on the more complex spells. What with the end being so far away from you.”

Sherlock stood taller, resisting the urge to get up on the tips of his toes, “I’ll have you know I’m expected to reach, at minimum, 190. Not a single male in my family, in the last half a millenia, was below 185.”

The older boy smirked, “You never know; you could be the runt of the family.”

“Thank you...” Both Sherlock and the prefect turned to John, “Sir.”

“Anytime, kid,” The older boy shot John a charming smile and held out his hand, “And it’s Lestrade, or Greg if you get sorted to Hufflepuff.”

Sherlock paled, his entire body stiffening, as he remembered the sorting that would take place once they reached Hogwarts. He hadn’t thought of it when he convinced Father into allowing him to attend the school because it hadn’t mattered to him which house he was put into. He couldn’t have cared less about what colours his uniform’s accents would be, which common room he wouldn’t end up spending any time at anyway or which traits he would be expected to exemplify for the good of the House Cup at the end of the year. None of that mattered to him because he was only here to get away until he could be on his own for good.

But now there was John and he would _not_ get sorted into the same house as Sherlock. 

John was not ambitious or ruthless enough for Slytherin; neither was Sherlock, not truly, though he had a chance at being decorated in Silver and green because of his family’s predilection for the house. John might be brave, but it wasn’t his defining trait, merely a facet, and that makes him a weak candidate for Gryffindor. Ravenclaw was certainly out for John; he wasn’t terribly stupid but he also wasn’t as oddly witty as one would need to make up for a lacking thirst of knowledge to satisfy the Raven’s eccentricities. But Sherlock certainly would. Sherlock could tick off every box of the bronze and blue house and no one would even blink at the reveal.

Sherlock could easily, and assuredly, see the hat not even bother to touch the curls on his head before it shrieked for him to sit at the Ravenclaw dining table. And Sherlock’s stomach plummeted because he could also see, as clear as day, John being sent off to sit at the table designated for Hufflepuff students. 

Sent away from him. From _Sherlock._

Diligent, patient, friendly, loyal… John Watson was everything the house of Hufflepuff could want. Everything it could ever hope to get out of one of its students, and they _would_ get him; the Sorting Hat would _give_ John to them. Take John from Sherlock and hand him right into their disgustingly boring and undeserving clutches. 

_“No!”_

“Oh.. Alright then…”

Sherlock blinked, snapping back from his thoughts and taking in the changes to the compartment: the prefect was gone, the door was shut and John was staring up at him with a dejected look. Sherlock tried to replay what his ears and eyes had been taking in while his brain was running through the inevitable scenarios and realized John had asked if he could resume their work on the Shield Charm now that he felt more confident in how he was holding his wand and how Sherlock had practically yelled at him.

“No, wait, yes. I was… thinking, I hadn’t heard you.” Sherlock took a breath and ran a hand through the curls on the side of his head as he sat down across John, “Ready, John?”

John grinned, wild, free and utterly blinding, as Sherlock suddenly threw the candy directly at John’s mouth before the blonde had even said the incantation.


	5. A Lesson in Magic

His success left nothing but a bittersweetness in his mouth.

“God, Sherlock, I am so sorry.” John was still kneeling before him as he both hovered and tried to pry away Sherlock’s hands so he could see how badly the hard candy had struck him.

“Though I loathe repeating myself, I shall so pay attention: I am quite alright, John.” Sherlock said while swatting at both of John’s hands with the only one not stubbornly pressed over his right eye.

“Like hell you are, I saw how fast that thing bounced off the charm and smacked you right in the eye.” John’s voice was rising, “You screamed in pain.”

“As undignified as it was, I didn't ‘scream in pain’.” Sherlock growled at him through clenched teeth as John had given up being nice and was putting in serious effort to yank Sherlock’s palm away, “I merely yelped in surprise.”

Not having the leverage he wanted as Sherlock was abusing their height difference to stretch up and lean back to make it hard for John to reach him while he was still on the floor. John grunted as he pulled himself to his feet using his whole body as extra weight to tug at Sherlock’s wrists.

“Now that _did_ hurt.” Sherlock hissed.

But John wasn’t listening, he was too stunned by the bloodshot white of Sherlock’s brilliant eye squinting at him as he struggled against the swelling. He did that: hurt him; hurt Sherlock. Even if the prat wasn’t admitting it, John had received a similar injury before -many times- and he knew anything that made an eye look like that most definitely hurt. John’s fingers came up to poke at the red eye and Sherlock flinched at the touch, “Christ, Sherlock, I really _am_ sorry.”

Sherlock clenched his hands at his knees and kept his eyes on John’s, “I told you I am fine. Really, John, you’re looking at this whole situation the wrong way. You succeeded in the spell, spectacularly I might add, you should feel very proud.” Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss John’s poking, “Besides, this is nothing a quick spell won't mend.”

Wait, that’s right: _magic_. They can use magic to fix Sherlock’s eye. The witch that stopped his father from doing anymore harm by spiriting him away from home had cast a spell on him to cause all of his injuries to vanish. Healed with the only evidence of them having been there in their memory of the event. John beamed between red ears as he felt his worry slip away, “Right, ‘course we can, we’re wizards, afterall.” John fell into the seat beside Sherlock, grinning even as one of his friend’s pencil perfect eyebrow rose. The silence that followed was starting to suffocate John and he eventually let his smile slip away. “Why aren’t you doing it?”

Sherlock smirked with an even higher quirking of his eyebrow, “Doing what?”

John blinked rapidly several times before he blurted, “Casting the spell to heal your eye. A healing spell!” Sherlock stared at him a moment longer before chuckling and John felt his stomach tighten, “Don’t tell me you don’t know-”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I know how to cast it. Episkey is the most basic of healing spells; elementary magic,” Sherlock huffed with his arms folded over his chest.

John ground his teeth, “Then _cast_ it so you can be healed already!”

Sherlock sighed, “I can’t.”

John wanted to pull his hair out, “You _just_ said-”

“I cannot cast it on myself. Well… Not on my _face_ anyway.” Sherlock turned to him, “I haven’t mastered the spell without the use of my wand and performing the wandline, while simple, towards my face is quite awkward. I would rather wait until we get to school and have it taken care of by someone there.”

John hadn’t thought of it like that and he hung his head, staring at the textured floor of their train compartment to glare at the spilled bag of offending Fizzing Whizzbee’s. John snapped his head up, “I could do it.”

“What?”

“I could do it!” John whirled on Sherlock, gripping both of his shoulders with his hands, the one with his wand grinding into his friend’s thin arm, “Teach me, Sherlock, I could do it if you just showed it to me.”

Sherlock eyed the wand tip that flailed dangerously close to his face before shifting to look into John’s eyes, “Healing magic is far more complicated than a simple conjuration charm.” Sherlock’s good eye narrowed, “The risks greater.”

John’s grip loosened a bit as he swallowed his friend’s words, but it only lasted a moment before he was tightening them again, “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock looked at him, really looked at him. Eyes piercing John to pry him open and expose his heart to see just how deep his sincerity went. John hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until it rushed out of him when Sherlock gave a firm nod. John released his hold on Sherlock’s shoulders and the boy began meticulously rolling up the long sleeve of his white dress shirt. When the cuff reached his elbow, Sherlock brandished his wand, made a rapid squiggling above his arm and pointed it at the pale skin halfway up his forearm, _“Diffindo.”_

And John watched in horror as bright red blood _poured_ from the gash trailing after Sherlock’s black wand. He reached for it, desperate to pull it away from him, to stop him, “Sherlock, stop!”

“Don’t!” Sherlock barked at him, his eyes never leaving the line his wand was making into his flesh, “If you disrupt me you could make it worse; I’m being very deliberate with how deep I’m letting the spell go.” John pinched his lips between his teeth hard enough he wasn’t sure if he was actually tasting blood or if the smell of Sherlock’s was just so potent. Sherlock lifted the wand off his arm and took a calm breath, “Focus, John. Watch. _Episkey._ ”

Sherlock was right, John thought absently, the wandline was simple, but it _would_ have been awkward to angle it at one’s face. A swift downward stroke with a slight flick at the end to trace the length of the cut was quick and practiced and John was sure he could do it. _Knew_ he could. John watched in wonder as the wound began to close, sealing away the exposed muscle, as the blood evaporated to reveal perfectly melded skin without a hint of scaring. The wand was pulled away from Sherlock’s arm and John followed it up into Sherlock’s eyes, “Did you get it? Are you ready to try?” John swallowed but nodded and Sherlock smiled with genuine warmth radiating from him, “Good.” Sherlock pointed his wand at his arm again and repeated the horror John had hoped never to see again.

“Sherlock!”

“If you think I am going to let you immediately cast the charm onto my eye you are both grossly overestimating your abilities and underestimating my rationality.” Sherlock finished his newest laceration and trapped John’s eyes with his own, “As I stated before, healing magic is more complicated than conjuring a shield. It is more nuanced. There is more involved; more concepts you must be aware of when mending a living being rather than protecting it.”

“But your arm...”

Sherlock cut him off, “Don’t be an idiot, John, you cannot cast a _healing_ charm without an _injury_ to practice on.”

John stared at Sherlock’s self-mutilation until he began to feel sick, he looked up at his friend in plea, “Why not use my-”

“You _are_ an idiot if you think I would harm you.” John avoided Sherlock’s glaring one eye and bit into his lower lip. He heard the boy groan, “Come on, John, I’ll bleed to death if you don’t hurry.”

John’s eyes shot up and Sherlock’s smirking face only ticked him off, “You aren’t going to die, Sherlock.”

“I’ll die of embarrassment if you don’t fix the shiner you gave me before we arrive.”

John tried to stay angry, truly he did, because it wasn’t funny that Sherlock had cut himself with his own wand then joked about bleeding to death if John didn’t bloody well hurry up and heal him. That’s why when John burst out into uncontrollable laughter he hated himself only until he heard Sherlock’s own high-pitched giggling join his; their combined laughter a lubricant to his twisting stomach.

“Stop,” John tried to stifle his laughter, “Stop it! We can't be laughing over your bloodied eye and arm, it isn’t right.”

Sherlock made no such effort, “Oh, who cares about being decent; it’s _my_ bloodied body. ” As their laughter petered off into soft chuckling Sherlock thrust his arm into John’s space, nearly letting it rest on his lap, “Enough jokes, John. Time to act.”

John stared at Sherlock, pursed his lips and then nodded once. He lifted his rowan wand over Sherlock’s arm, angling it just slightly away from where it was so that the stroke of his wand line would end at the start of the cut. John was nervous; in the back of his mind he knew Sherlock was right, healing flesh _should_ be harder to do than making an invisible wall to deflect candies, but he also knew that if he could get this spell right; master it enough to heal both Sherlock’s arm and his eye, his new friend would be immeasurably happy with him.

And John would do _anything_ to have Sherlock happy with him.

_“Episkey!”_

At first, John thought he had done it, what with the blood being wiped away as his wand swept over it. However; once he heard Sherlock’s hiss, saw his arm twitch, and smelt the harsh scent coming from the cut, his stomach reached the floor. “Sherlock…”

“It’s- it’s quite alright, John.” Sherlock repeatedly flexed his injured arm’s hand as he angled his own wand back over it. “We can't expect you to succeed on your first try on only the second spell you’ve ever tried to cast in your life. _Diffindo._ Now,” Sherlock looked up into John’s ocean eyes, “again.”

John gulped but steeled his face as he did as he was told and, after every failure, Sherlock cut into himself afterwards and waited for the next attempt. After another five tries, John looked at Sherlock, taking in his sunken eyes and clammy skin and lowered his wand. Sherlock looked up, meeting John’s gaze as he shook his head, “No more, Sherlock. I can’t keep doing this to you. Look at you, you’re worse than when we started.” There was a sharp sting behind both of John’s eyes, “I’m being selfish. I’m treating you like an experiment; like some kind of guinea pig.”

Sherlock didn’t speak for a long moment, a moment that John grew increasingly nervous and fidgety over until his pale friend scoffed from his seat, “You’re an idiot.” John pinched his lower lip between his teeth, hunching his shoulders and Sherlock folded his arms, mindful of his bleeding one, and re-crossed his legs, “The fault is not purely your own; perhaps I should have explained more of the intricacies of the spell and its effect before simply making you cast it.” 

Do you understand how the human body is layered?” Sherlock asked him 

John lowered his eyebrows as he thought about it, “A bone in the center, muscles around it and skin on top?”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, “I suppose that isn’t entirely inaccurate, when speaking about the arm and in the most broad and limited sense. Episkey is a spell that acts as a catalyst for the magic you flow into the wound in order to mend what is damaged. It does not seek out what isn’t right on its own, it needs you to _understand_ what is damaged and how it should look when it is healed to try and make the magic assist the body in returning it to that state.” John nodded slightly and Sherlock continued, “You were able to cast the Shield Charm easily because I had told you its name and function; I explained its purpose to you and thus you were more easily able to control your magic to make it perform what it should do because you wanted it to.” 

Witches and wizards who take the path of healers familiarize themselves with how a body is supposed to be from the inside out in order to use magic to return a broken one back to normal. Magic is never the answer to the problem; it is only a tool to help the wizard answer the question.” Sherlock held out his oozing arm, “Now, what is the question?”

John looked down at the gash on Sherlock’s arm and scrunched his nose as he tried to think, “Why is it like that?”

Sherlock smirked, “While that would be useful to ask, if you were faced with a patient where you didn’t know the spell that injured them (to be able to use the correct countercurse), no; we already know the spell needed to fix the injury.”

“How…” John murmured as he watched Sherlock’s face begin to ease into a pleased expression, “should it look?”

Sherlock’s grin was instant and contagious and John couldn’t help himself from joining in with his own, “Yes, precisely, John. How should this injured arm look if it were uninjured? The reason you were causing me pain -don’t make that face John, it’s unpleasant- was because you weren’t thinking about how the wound should be but were simply focused on making the magic heal the wound _somehow_ , thus leaving the magic without direction aside from acting upon the location you channeled magic into. Until a wizard gives magic purpose through proper direction, which comes from _understanding_ , it is volatile and unstable. You cannot allow magic to become uncontrolled, that is how spells fail and people die, John.”

John schooled his guilty expression and digested Sherlock’s words. Sherlock was right, he hadn’t really been doing much with the spell besides trying to funnel magic into Sherlock’s cut, hoping it would heal it just like Sherlock had done so easily. John licked his lips, “I thought I wasn’t strong enough to be able to heal you with the spell… I didn’t realize I was simply failing it. When I failed the Shield Charm nothing happened but when I failed Episkey I hurt you.”

Sherlock sighed, “That is complicated to explain; put simply: depending on the nature of the spell, how much magic is needed to have the spell function and the experience and/or affinity of the wizard casting it determines how much of a backlash a failure can induce. If a moderately experienced wizard goes to cast a difficult spell that affects not a direct target but in a general location and fails, the magic could simply fizzle out and produce nothing but mild discomfort in the wizard as he realizes the spell isn’t producing the effect he wants and tries to suppress the magic that didn’t come under his control when he tried to cast the spell.” Sherlock grinned, “Now if a very inexperienced wizard goes to try and fix a broken arm by casting a spell that was made to fix a broken nose because he doesn’t know the proper spell for a broken arm, the injured party may find themselves without a bone in their arm to _be_ broken.”

John froze, both of his eyes growing wide in fright as he looked between Sherlock’s bleeding arm and bruised eye. Sherlock rolled his eyes and frowned, “Please, John. You aren’t going to vanish my eye right out of my socket if you fail the spell. Episkey is a mundane general healing spell, it cannot do much more than mend simple injuries like cuts and bruises. Although I have heard of some wizards being able to mend delicate things like noses and toes with the spell. So I wouldn’t worry about anything worse than some pain to your victim and to your own pride.”

John hadn’t thought of vanishing something as an outcome of messing up and he tried to suppress his worried smile at the idea, “That’s good to know.”

Sherlock smiled and offered his arm again, “Come now, John, seventh time’s the charm.”


	6. Proof of Hard Work

Sherlock couldn’t have been more proud of himself if he tried. Oh sure, there was that moment of heart stopping fear as John’s wandline ended at his right eye and the warm heat of the magic surged through his cornea. But, as the warmth eased into a refreshing coolness while feeling the magic repair the broken capillaries and sweep away the burst blood vessels, he found himself looking into John’s blue eyes, single-mindedly focused on healing Sherlock’s eye, with a grin he was sure reached both ears. John nodded, seemingly to himself, and leaned back to admire his work. Sherlock already knew it was healed, felt the nonexistent pain and the vanished swelling, and couldn’t figure out how he managed to smile even wider, “Excellent work, John. You’ve gone from having never cast a spell in your life to succeeding in deflecting a projectile and healing a black eye in under four hours.”

John finally looked at him, and a radiant blush reached both ears in embarrassed pleasure, “I’m just glad I was able to heal your eye. If you hadn’t taught me, who knows when I would have been able to do either. You’re amazing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed with pride and preened under John’s praise, “Yes but don’t belittle your accomplishments on my extensive account, John, relish your success as not many pure-bloods can, truthfully, claim the same.” Sherlock patted the seat beside him and John flashed a quick grin as he plopped down, “A wand of rowan is renowned for its peerless defensive charmwork and so I knew the Shield Charm would be perfect as your first spell.” Sherlock turned to him, ice beaming, “I am glad my trust in you was not misplaced however much a surprise the success of the Episkey charm was; a decidingly welcome one I assure you.”

Sherlock saw John’s chest puff out as he nodded vigorously, “You can count on me, Sherlock. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Sherlock smiled, “I know, John. I know.”

_**~~*~~** _

_  
_

“Calm down, John, the train will not depart with us still onboard,” Sherlock sighed. John was fidgeting with his newly adorned school robe as he looked between their train compartment’s door and the window outside and Sherlock was sure John’s head would scramble if he didn’t quit.

“Yeah, but,” John nibbled on his bottom lip, “I mean, yeah you’re probably right but,” he glanced at the frosted glass in the door as streams of shadows passed by, students all eagerly disembarking from the train on their way to get to school, “shouldn’t we get in line? What if all the good seats are taken and we have to sit in front? What if there aren't enough empty spots for us to sit together?”

Sherlock was speechless for a moment, “What on earth are you talking about?” 

John looked at him, “I mean, we have to take a bus to get the rest of the way right? We’re at a train station; not the school.”

Sherlock frowned at him, “There is no _bus_ , John. We will be escorted to the school grounds by a member of the faculty; there’s nothing to worry about.”

“But, what _if_ -”

Sherlock snarled and threw his arms up into the air, “Fine, John, _fine!_ ” before shoving himself off the seat and grabbing a hold of John’s wrist. Pulling John with him, he threw open the compartment door with a glass shattering clack startling everyone passing by to stillness. “If you’re so worried about being left behind then I will make sure you’re the first one on the lake.” Sherlock tugged John along after him, shoving through every girl and boy in his way.

“What about-”

Sherlock didn’t even pause, “Do you have your wand?”

“Well, yes-”

“Nothing else matters. The rest of it will be sent to our dorms after the Sorting Ceremony.” Sherlock received an obnoxious _‘Rude!’_ from a pair of girls as he pushed them aside for standing and chatting in the train’s corridor.

John tried to turn his head around, no doubt to apologize, but Sherlock tightened his grip on John and sped through the remainder of the train car before the blonde had the chance. He heard John sigh, “Sorting Ceremony? What’s that?” 

Sherlock scowled just as his throat began to tighten and he pulled John along after him. At some point, in the last car, the students had made a path ahead of them in an obviously displeased effort to avoid getting pushed aside. By the time Sherlock had reached the steps leading off the train no one was in his way so he lept all four steps onto the cobblestone platform. Sherlock was able to land properly but John, off balance from the moment he had left his seat, wasn’t and collided into Sherlock’s back sending both of them tumbling over each other onto the uneven stone floor. Sherlock heard John groaning in pain above him and Sherlock wanted to do more than grunt but John seemed to weigh far more than he thought when he pulled him through the train and it was a real struggle to take in breath let alone waste what little he had to tell John to get off.

“You two again?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and replaced the forehead he had been trying to lift back onto the stone floor. Of all the-

“C’mon, Watson, up ya go.” Sherlock let out a strangled gasp as John’s weight shifted fully onto his spine less than a second before it was miraculously gone. He took a few deep breaths as he slowly eased himself onto his hands and knees before finally making it to his two feet. Sherlock threw out an arm to steady himself and brought the back of his other hand to his chin, hissing as his fingers came in contact with the bloody scrape he found there.

“Sherlock, are you alright? Christ, you’re bleeding.”

Sherlock glanced at John holding onto his arm as a steady stream of blood flowed from the gash under his chin onto his clothes. No amount of wiping was alleviating the annoyance and he frowned. His and John’s robes were dirtied from the fall, with Sherlock’s hand steadily becoming sticky from the blood and he felt the beginnings of several bruises over his body. Sherlock _was_ glad he hadn’t bitten off his tongue as that would have made this all the more bothersome, “I’m quite fine, John, nothing we can’t take care of.”

“Serves you right, arsehole!” 

John looked over as the female voice rang out from behind him and Sherlock found the scowl on John’s face all the more delightful as the blonde boy made an obvious point to stand between them like a buffer. Sherlock was about to turn and confront the girl but, to his surprise, the Hufflepuff prefect butted in.

“Hey, watch it, first-year. If I have to let your Head of House know about your attitude I will.”

She scoffed, “I haven’t even got a house yet.”

“Yeah, well, when you _do._ Now stop holding up the rest of the students and get off the train.”

Sherlock heard a second scoff and rolled his eyes as he wiped away at his chin again. He felt John step closer, shifting slightly while tensing and Sherlock lowered his hand as a tea skinned girl with wildly tight curls glared at him as she walked by. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes for a second time by placing his bloodied hand on John’s shoulder to spin him around. John’s expression softened as he looked from his eyes to his chin and Sherlock tilted his up to better show off John’s handiwork, “You can apologize for falling on me by taking care of it.” John’s eyes sparked with determination and he quickly took out his wand and pointed it at Sherlock.

“Whoa, now, hold on,” the prefect, _Lestrade_ , put up his hand. “Did neither of you hear me when I warned you last time?”

“Don’t you have luggage to unload, _prefect_?” Sherlock shot him a glare.

“It’s alright, Lestrade, I’m just going to heal his cut. Not summon dragon’s fire like before.” John’s reassuring smile was anything but as Sherlock took a long blink towards the sky and Lestrade’s face widened every orifice in shock.

“Dragon’s Fire?!” Lestrade stammered, “Y-you-”

“That was an idiom, John.” Sherlock sighed.

“Oh, so you weren’t going to actually-”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

John chuckled, “Right, yeah, ‘course. Should have known you wouldn’t set _me_ on fire.”

“Not on purpose.” Sherlock smirked with a hint of teeth, “And not unless you _really_ deserved it.”

John laughed hard at that one, a bright burst of joy that Sherlock absorbed with every pore, “At least warn me before I get to that point, alright?” Sherlock merely shrugged, that smile turning lazy, and John grinned as he pointed his wand at Sherlock’s face, _“Epi-”_

Lestrade clamped his hand around John’s wrist, interrupting him from his spell, “How about you let me do it, John. Healing spells can be kinda rough if you haven’t much practice with magic.” He met Sherlock’s scathing look with his own, “Or would you rather it scar?”

“Don’t insult-”

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John spoke up and tried to remove Lestrade’s hand from his wrist and smiled, “Believe it or not, I’ve already healed worse on him.” Lestrade hesitated and John continued, “Trust me, I got it.”

Lestrade looked from John’s calm reassurance and Sherlock’s blatant annoyance before sighing as he released John’s wrist to give him a bit of space, “Alright.” He glanced at Sherlock, “But it's _your_ face.”

Sherlock scoffed and John only smiled at his upturned nose, “Ready, Sherlock?”

“Always, John.”

_“Episkey!”_

The familiar hot-cold sensation bloomed on his chin and Sherlock relished the feeling. Once the chill was gone, Sherlock brought his hand up to inspect the site of the injury and grinned, “Excellent, John.”

John beamed as he stowed his wand, “Thanks.”

“Wow,” John and Sherlock looked at Lestrade’s shocked expression and one of them made an attempt to not look so obviously smug about it. “How’d you go from not knowing how to hold your wand to casting a healing spell without any fear of backlash?”

“Sherlock’s brilliant.” “John’s brilliant, obviously.” 

They turned to each other, sharing a look before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Lestrade frowned, shifting his gaze between both of them, and was opening his mouth to comment before a shrill whistle sounded. They turned around to see a huddled group of new students surrounding an impressively bearded man who looked easily double the tallest boy’s height. 

“Firs’-years!” The giant’s bellow was warm and booming, “Firs’-years, over here. This way, please. Come on now, hurry up.”

Lestrade turned back to them, clasping John briefly on the shoulder, “That’d be Hagrid, best be getting on after him to the boats, boys.” He flashed them a quick grin as he left them to return to the train, “You don’t wanna be late for your own sorting.”

John turned to look at Sherlock, “Oh, yeah, you never did tell me what the Sorting Ceremony was.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes, unable to suppress the chill that seeped from them, “It is where they decide what house we will be placed in for the remainder of our stay at Hogwarts.” Sherlock turned away before the last word was finished, and John had to trot to keep up with his sudden departure, “Come along, John. I promised you’d be the first on the lake.”


	7. A Boat to Remember

John didn’t much mind that Sherlock couldn’t keep his promise about being the first out onto the lake; there were at least fifty other students with them as they followed Hagrid through the wizarding village of Hogsmeade to the docks of the Black Lake and only two of them but the irritation that Sherlock displayed over this fact was endearing in its own way. No one had ever shown such frustration _for_ him before and John pressed his lips together to try and stop smiling at every twitch of his friend’s eye. 

“Thirty-third on the lake isn’t so bad, Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John.”

John lost the battle; his grin was lightning fast and full of teeth as Sherlock climbed into the boat and sat beside him on the middle plank.

“Got room for two more?”

John looked up at the dock and saw a mousy strawberry brunette girl standing beside a happy dumpling of a boy with black hair. Sherlock tensed and edged closer to John until their hips touched, and John couldn’t help the rueful smile at his friend’s obvious displeasure at the idea. But… “Yeah ‘course, plenty of room,” John nodded.

The boy beamed and helped the girl ease into the front plank before falling onto the one in the rear himself, “Ta, mate. The name’s Mike Stamford, nice to meet ya.”

The rocking of the small oarless rowboat had Sherlock’s fists tightening around his knees until every joint was white while his jaw clenched with enough force John could easily see his muscles jump in protest. John silently sighed and twisted around to offer a hand to the boy behind him, “John Watson, likewise.”

“I’m Molly… Hooper. Molly Hooper,” the small girl in front stammered out as John and Mike shook hands.

John turned back to face forward and watched as the girl was trying to not stare at Sherlock but failed spectacularly as she kept darting her gaze at him in an attempt to catch his eye. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering, “Hi, Molly.”

She jumped at the sound of John’s voice, obviously far too distracted with trying to get Sherlock’s attention, but when she finally caught John’s gaze she flushed and twisted halfway back around so only her profile was visible while she stared at her wooden seat, “Oh, yes, hello… John.”

“What about you, mate? What’s your name?”

With no response coming from the friend beside him John turned his head only to witness the most intense pout he’d ever seen. John, unable to help himself, started snickering which had Sherlock rounding those icy eyes and petulant expression directly at him, making it worse. John had to cling to the side of the boat to keep himself upright as he sat there covering his mouth with the back of his other hand.

“I’m glad you find these farcical introductions so _amusing_ , John.”

“S-orry, Sherlock, I’m not laughing _at_ you, honest.” At Sherlock’s narrowing eyes John’s giggles subsided, “Just your face.”

Sherlock huffed and folded his arms over his chest as he pointedly turned from John. It wasn’t until the boat moved itself away from the dock to let an empty one take its place did he respond, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock, eh? That’s a right different name,” The dumpling boy said with wonder. “A far cry more interesting than Mike and John.”

“Oh, yeah,” John agreed as he softly nudged Sherlock’s ribs with his elbow, “Sherlock’s one-of-a-kind.”

Sherlock’s body tensed at the playful touch but relaxed at the sincerity of John’s words. He turned back, letting both shades of blue eyes meet, “Your name belies your own unique qualities, John.”

John grinned, “Ta. I think.”

Three of them settled into mundane conversation, Sherlock staying resoundingly silent unless John directly mentioned him, as their little boat idled among the others that had filled with the first years before them to wait for the few remaining to board boats of their own. The heavy fog that surrounded them made it difficult to see much past the warm glow of the lanterns hanging off the front of every boat.

“You’re what they call a pure-blood then, right? With a name like that.” John watched as Sherlock’s face seemed to ice over with a blank acceptance that had John remembering his mother’s expression as his dad beat him once that witch arrived with his letter. John couldn’t help himself and shivered; Sherlock glanced at him before leaning closer.

Sherlock’s eyes closed briefly, “Yes.” 

“Wicked, I’m full blooded Muggle, meself. Not sure how I managed to get invited to a wizard’s school. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, just hoping they don't notice their mistake and figure the letter they sent was meant for someone else.” Mike grimaced, “That’d be a right bloody shame after seeing all this magic stuff.”

“They’d just Obliviate you in the improbability of that being the case.” John heard Sherlock mumble beside him.

“What?” John asked him.

“It's a spell used to modify someone’s memory. It is commonly used on Muggles who shouldn’t, but do, come in contact with the wizarding world.” John nodded, it makes sense that wizards would be able to do something like that; how else would people not know about them by this point?

“What about you John; your parents Muggles too? Or are you like Molly and one of them’s a witch?” 

John froze then nodded, blond head shifting awkwardly up and down as he mindlessly wrapped an arm around his stomach to rub at his previously broken ribs, “My parents...” He forced his breath to steady, even as he felt the tightness of his chest test the limits of his control. He didn’t want to lie to them, he didn’t like lying to people, but he also didn’t want them to know anything about his parents. Didn’t want _anyone_ to know.

“Both Mr. and Mrs. Watson are Muggles.” John jerked his head up to see an odd thing flit in the icy blue eyes that held his gaze as the mouth below them continued, “They were quite shocked at the unexpected reveal of John’s magical potential. As was I.”

“Ah, so you two were friends before getting your letters? Must have been terrific news for you since you both got to continue going to school together.” Mike clapped Sherlock on the back of his shoulder but John didn’t notice that Sherlock barely reacted to the physical contact. “I had to leave all my friends behind. What’ll I even tell them when I see them over summer break,” the boy lamented.

“Yes, we’ve always been friends,” Sherlock drew the words slowly out of his mouth. “Right. John?” Sherlock’s gaze burned and John realized Sherlock had lied for him, and, not only that, Sherlock had taken on the burden of John’s life story by simply stating that they knew each other before coming to Hogwarts. Making anything Sherlock said as truth so _John_ wouldn’t have to lie.

John’s heart clenched, causing a breathlessness that took two squeaking words before he was able to add to Sherlock’s statement, “Yes, absolutely; the best.” Sherlock smiled at him, a pleased look that had John helpless to resist copying. 

Suddenly, a shrill whistle sounded. “Alright, everybody in a boat? Good. Now, let’s get this blasted fog cleared up…” And the fog did. A gentle breeze, with more impact on the misty air than John thought it should, wove between the few dozen boats and, as the stars became visible, John’s attention was fixed upon the great towering castle on the far shore of the lake.

“Blimey, the book does it no justice!”

John wasn’t aware his mouth was hung open, or his eyes wide, but he knew he agreed with what Mike said even if he didn’t know what book he was talking about. The castle was all old charm, what with its jutting towers and warm glowing lights as it was a stately castle off the side of a high cliff over a lake, and mystery with the air and knowledge of the magic within it. John couldn’t take his eyes away and, honestly, felt no inclination to do so.

“Ah,” the great giant’s voice carried out over the lake, easily reaching every pair of ears in every boat, “there she is, boys an’ girls: Hogwarts!” And then they all _moved_ ; the small fleet of rowboats were on a direct course for the old castle. With every second they grew closer, a feeling of cold dread became more pronounced in John’s stomach.

_Fear._

Here he was, boring John Watson, son to a full-time mother, an hourly father and brother to a once-loving older sister, about to become fully encased within a world in which, less than a week ago, he hadn’t even known existed. And he was _scared_. And he wanted to go back; wanted to go home, to forget. Forget everything. He wanted to forget what his dad had done to him. Forget how his mum looked at him as he was beaten into the floor by his father. Forget how his sister had watched with pleasure as his blood dripped onto the carpet from his father’s fists. He wanted to go _home_ but he knew, unless _everyone_ wholeheartedly and undeniably _forgot_ about _everything_ that would never happen because _that_ wasn’t home to him. It _couldn’t_ be; he didn’t belong there anymore. 

But John wasn’t sure if he belonged _here_ either.

He didn’t know anything about this wizarding world and he was afraid, with every second the boat brought him closer to the magical castle on the lake, he was losing whatever sliver of chance to return to a world that he knew, for things to go back to the way it was before all of _this_. Before the witch had handed _him,_ not his father (who had grumbled about having to get up from the couch to _answer the bloody door after working a 12 hour shift at the plant_ ), the letter because _John_ had the potential to use magic and, if he came to Hogwarts to learn, he _could_. 

But John didn't know the first thing about how to be a wizard. 

He didn’t know how to get his supplies on the list for school because he didn’t know how to _get_ to a store that sold anything magical and, so, the witch that had come to his home to hand him a letter to make his family _hate_ him, had to do it _for_ him. He hadn’t paid for anything because he didn’t have any money and, so, the witch also had to submit paperwork for him to be considered for a sponsorship (not unlike charity) and that _embarrassed_ him. John wasn’t sure what made him feel less like he belonged in this new world more, the fact that he didn’t even know anything as simple as the fact that wizards used actual gold and silver as money, so now he didn’t know how much anything was worth, or that he had needed so much help to even be able to take his first steps into this new world he had to be sponsored by someone who was already so comfortable and secure and _belonging_ to it that they felt it an honourable thing to help someone who couldn’t help themselves. He didn’t know the difference between an Ash or a Yew or a Cherry or an Elm or whatever wood wand some nutter wizard named Ollivander had thrust into his hands. Hell, he hadn’t even known how to hold the bloody thing before- 

“John.”

Startled, John blinked rapidly before taking in the sudden change in scenery; they were at the dock at the base of the cliff, the boat had stopped moving and no one else was on board aside from him. John looked toward the voice that had called his name and saw a pale hand stretched out to him before he let his eyes travel up that hand and arm and face into pale orbs that were as fixated on him as he was on them. 

John registered the twitch that traveled from the shoulder down to the slightly splayed fingers but he couldn’t look away; Sherlock’s eyes were like a lifeline from his own mind and it left him so wonderfully calm, “We’ve arrived. Come, take my hand.”

John nodded, took it and Sherlock pulled him up so quickly and so easily John fleetingly wondered if Sherlock had cast a spell to help make it so before fully comprehending that Sherlock was holding him up to stop him from stumbling over. “It’ll be alright, John. Everything will be alright and do you know why?”

John swallowed hard with the tiniest shake of his head as he leveraged himself upright, “No.”

“Because you’re not alone.” Sherlock placed both of his hands on John’s shoulders, squeezing briefly before letting them fall, “You have me and, no matter what happens, I will never abandon you.”

John looked at him, stared and stared and stared as he let what was happening around them fade away into nothing while focusing everything onto Sherlock. He took a shaky breath, “Do you promise?”

Sherlock nodded, “Promise me the same?”

John didn’t hesitate, “Yes, of course. No matter what. Forever.”

Sherlock’s face relaxed into a relieved smile, “Splendid.”


	8. Foolproof

Sherlock didn’t think he could hate anyone more than his own parents, and none more so than Father, but it seems John’s family had accomplished what he had been so sure no one could. And, oh, how he _did_ hate them. Hated the filthy Muggle of a sister for watching on with glee as her special and magically gifted younger brother was told he was so much better than she. That coward of a mother who was too afraid of receiving familiar punishment under her husband’s hands to protect her precious son. And then there was the _father_ … A Mr. Henry James Watson. A Muggle man of such contemptuous habits that it was a wonder either child had survived to term, let alone into the double digits (though the sister truly shouldn’t have been so fortunate). 

Sherlock tried to keep his steps easy and natural as he and John followed the long line of other first years up the steep wooden staircase that wound the cliff side to the castle above, but only for John’s sake, because it just wouldn’t _do_ to have John knowing what he knew because John hadn’t _told_ Sherlock any of it. But then this was also John’s fault because John just had to be so _fully_ exposed, so completely open and willing toward Sherlock that he found himself easily sensed, rifled and deciphered. 

And, as much as Sherlock knew that he shouldn’t, he _craved_ more.

Once Sherlock had touched that rowan wand, inlaid with a hair from the same unicorn’s tail as his own elder wand, he knew it was going to be very easy for him to get inside John’s head (if not down right unavoidable). Even if their initial ease of mingling hadn’t already hinted at that very inevitability. His father had trained him to handle it, suppress it, hide it so that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by it or scorned for it and Sherlock had always _hated_ that he _had_ to do it. It was such a vital part of him and he had to tuck it away and squelch it every second of every day lest others find out or it overwhelm him until he could control it better. But Sherlock understood because he had experienced all the bad things that came to one who doesn’t know what they are doing.

The madness when one left their mind open to others, so wonderfully relaxed and receiving and Sherlock’s head screamed at the memory. It’s why he couldn’t be around people when he had turned seven; he had been too young and others had similarly been too expressive and Sherlock had been driven nearly catatonic from the sensations of people just existing. Children were especially unbearable and Sherlock had been hidden away at home with his mother and father who both distanced themselves physically, mentally and emotionally from him until they had figured out how to best handle being around him and his ability. 

It was a small blessing that his father was who he is because his line of work had necessitated the unparalleled expertise in both Sherlock’s innate ability and the means to resist it. And so there he stayed, studying every ounce of magic and spellcasting he could in order to build up the tolerance and fortitude to be able to reintegrate because he was horribly, desperately, lonely in that big manor with none but a mother who was blind to anything but the stars above and a father who distrusted every expression you wore because he couldn’t decide if you were being honest or if it was manipulation and Sherlock had been _miserable_.

That was why he was happy to get left at King’s Crossing to arrive at platform 9 ¾ by himself. Why he had immediately made for the train once he had passed through the unplottable passageway. Why he had claimed a compartment, not too far in the back, middle or front, all to himself. And it was why John Watson’s persistent and innocent and honest desire for Sherlock’s attention had ultimately lowered Sherlock’s guard against him. 

Because, as Sherlock was shocked to discover, he was desperate for John’s acceptance of him, his affection was a balm over Sherlock’s damaged soul and he couldn’t resist knowing _everything_ about him. All the pain and joy that made John _John_. All the troubles he had faced and all the difficulties that had made him stronger. All the bits of love he had been given, and all the hate he now had in its place. Sherlock had never wanted anything more in his whole life than what he wanted from John.

He _wanted_ John.

And, if Sherlock was going to be able to keep John, he was going to need to make sure John could stay with him. Sherlock needed John to see he was the best option available; the _only_ option. The irrefutable option. The option that no one could ever claim was based upon something as volatile as emotions, because emotions could be changed; _were_ dangerous. But that also meant John would need to be protected because anything that Sherlock had ever wanted had been deemed irrelevant and expendable and discarded. But if he _needed_ something then _maybe_ … and Sherlock _did_ need John.

Sherlock needed to belong somewhere, just as John did, and neither of them fit better anywhere other than where they were right now: together. Nothing would ever be more perfect for one than the other. They knew it, their wands knew it, now they just needed to convince everyone else. Sherlock needed to _convince_ -

“You’ll have to send a search party out for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked at John’s voice, then blinked again as he ran it through his mind to try and contextualize the meaning behind John’s words. “Don’t be an idiot; I’d never lose you.”

John chuckled beside him, their footfalls in perfect sync as they crossed under an open arch into a grassy courtyard, “But I don't have much faith in not losing _myself_. Look at this place, Sherlock. It’s enormous. How in the world will I make it anywhere?”

“By walking.” 

The boy beside him groaned, but when Sherlock glanced at him he saw John’s smile and was pleased it had returned to its rightful place. “You git, you know what I mean. What if I’ve a class at the top of that tower there and then the next one is at the top of the other one there? What do I do then, hm?”

“You run.”

John barked out a quick laugh before stifling it while nudging Sherlock in the arm with his elbow.

John’s laughter was infectious and it was quite a strain on Sherlock’s face to keep his lips from doing anything but twitch so he took advantage of their passing through the great wood doorway of Hogwarts’ main entrance, and its sudden bright torchlight, to scrunch his face to hide it. As Sherlock’s eyes adjusted, and his urge to grin like an idiot successfully suppressed, he opened them to join John in gazing about the vast room that was the Hogwarts’ Front Entrance: a loft above, led to by a massive marble staircase in front, corridors on every side and a ceiling so high the lights from the torches on the walls couldn’t reach. 

As the children stopped at the gesture of the giant, and more continued to fill in behind them, Sherlock saw them (two on each side flanking the doors they had just entered): The House Hourglasses. Sherlock knew his blood must have been replaced with ice at that point because every thud of his heart, every pump that let it course through him, was a grating sensation not unlike trying to breathe in arctic air. Sherlock hadn’t noticed his own fingers digging into his palms until John spoke up beside him.

“Wow, I wonder what those are for.”

At John’s soft voice Sherlock’s grew harder, “They are the House Hourglasses.”

“Okay, and what’re they-”

“Alright, boys and girls, my name’s Hagrid and let me be the first to say: Welcome to Hogwarts,” The booming voice of the giant they had been following from the train station to the front entrance of the school was accompanied by a warm grin as he looked down over them. “In a bit we’re gonna go through these doors, here,“ he gestured with a big thumb pointed over his shoulder, “an’ you’re gonna meet your professors and the rest of the school. Now, don’t go sitting wherever you well please, neither, because you’ll need to be sorted into your houses first. There’s Gryffindor,” he started ticking off each name with a finger, “Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw an’ Slytherin. An’ whatever one you get sorted into will be your home and the other students there your families.” Sherlock tensed as he felt John’s rapt interest in the last sentence. “Now, the Hourglasses behind ya are for keeping track of the points each house earns throughout the year. Do something great and you’ll earn your house points, but, do something bad and you’ll lose ‘em just as quick, so, behave.” The burly man’s sudden seriousness shifted back to happy enthusiasm, “At the end of the year, whichever house has the most points will win the house cup.” He rubbed his hands together before lifting one with the palm facing them, “Now, wait out ‘ere another moment while I go an’ check to make sure they’re ready for all ya.”

As they watched Hagrid push the massive wooden doors open, a sudden rush of noise and greetings flooded into the entrance from the great hall beyond and Sherlock felt a cold sweat start forming down his spine. That might be a bit more people than he had expected to deal with in such close proximity on a constant basis.

“Hey, Sherlock, which house do you think we’ll get sent to?” 

Sherlock’s stomach churned and he swallowed audibly even as the murmur of the other first-years around them increased in volume. “I’m not sure, John,” Sherlock lied. “Though the potential is there that we won’t be sorted into the same house.”

“What? But…” Sherlock glanced quickly before shifting his whole head to face John’s crestfallen expression, “I want to be in the same house as you.”

Sherlock nodded once but said nothing as the giant had come back to peek his head out to them.

“C’mon now, we’re ready for ya!”

The amount of excitement and anticipation was nearly suffocating as the others around them started firmly placing themselves as far into the front as possible while they funneled down to a line behind Hagrid and headed into the great hall. Next to him, John was now displaying obvious discomfort while they trudged between the two middle tables toward the one at the end facing the rest of the hall. 

Sherlock made a point to avoid eye contact with any, and every, one; which was both difficult and not as there were some who he could feel watching him and that just made it easier to know where not to inadvertently let his eyes wander. Sherlock felt John bump into him again, their elbows brushing and Sherlock focused on that more so than the ever shrinking distance between what he knew would separate them. 

Could he do it? Could he influence the Sorting Hat to make it so he followed after John? Most certainly the solution wasn’t to have John follow him, because there was no way John would have any traits that Ravenclaw would want. But, and this Sherlock was sure of, Hufflepuff would _clamor_ for someone of his caliber in their house. Someone as intelligent as Sherlock would be invaluable toward increasing the prestige of a house. Especially if he was smarter than any of the other students in the entire year of Ravenclaws (which Sherlock had no doubt of). No Ravenclaw would dare risk their chances to join the great bronze eagle for the mediocrity of the badger so perhaps it _would_ be just as easy as telling the hat where he wanted to go, and that would be that. The hat might even bother wasting its time trying to convince him that his choice was a mistake and to heed its advice and go to the house that would be better suited to facilitate and groom his peerless intellect and Sherlock would still just tell the blasted old hat to shove off and put him into Hufflepuff all the same.

“Alright, that’s good, wait here so McGonagall can speak.”

They came to a stop at the foot of the slightly raised level of the hall, and the line began to spread out along the length of the lower level to stare up at the long table of grown witches and wizards that watched them. An old witch, one with a great pointed hat and shimmering green robes stood up from her seat in the perfect center of the table, “Welcome to Hogwarts. I have only one thing to announce this year. Contrary to what some may say, Kneazles are not cats and are _not_ permitted as pets here at school. Should any be found the students responsible for the creature will be reprimanded.” There was a flicker of her gaze that shot toward the left side of the hall before returning over the rest. “Thank you.”

When the woman sat, the giant unfurled a long parchment before picking up a ragged hat from the stool beside him and made a great effort to clear his throat, “Now, when I call your name, come up here and we’ll get you sorted. Avery, Casey.”

A small black haired boy trotted up the three steps and plopped onto the rickety stool with such restrained excitement, Sherlock was sure the boy would vibrate the old seat to dust. The hat was placed on the boy’s head and it shuddered to life once it settled over the boy’s eyes. There wasn’t twenty seconds of wriggling silence from both the boy and hat before it bellowed, “Gryffindor!” 

The table far to the right of Sherlock, along the wall, erupted into cheers as the hat was plucked from the boy’s head and he dashed towards his awaiting house. Sherlock had counted seventeen seconds; that was all the time the hat had taken to decide which house to send him off to. So Sherlock planned his argument for five. Another name was called and Sherlock mindlessly noted that the list was organized alphabetically, by last name, before he felt a rough hand slip into his. Startled, Sherlock blinked before turning sharply towards the offending hand, and stopped breathing when he followed it up an arm and into John’s face. 

John smiled weakly at him, squeezing his hand before he turned to stare with a solemn look at the next child called to the sorting hat. Sherlock’s gaze followed John’s and he hardly noticed the children sitting on the chair, getting the hat placed on their head briefly before they raced to sit at their new family’s dining table, as all of his focus was on the tense hand holding his own as they watched people get divided and sent to each of the four houses. Suddenly, the pressure from John on his hand turned near crushing, and Sherlock flinched at the force before locking eyes with John’s. Why-

“Holmes, Sherlock.”

Ah... His time had come. Sherlock glanced at the stool and giant holding the hat before looking back at John. He tightened his fingers and tried for a confident smile just before slipping away to ascend the 4 short steps to his fate. As he sat down before hundreds of heads and a thousand eyes, the giant brought the sorting hat over his head and Sherlock began chanting in his head, as loud as he could:

_Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff-_


	9. Legilimency

“Ravenclaw!”

The rather oversized, beat-up, old hat hadn’t even messed up Sherlock’s wild halo of curls before barking out the name of the house. And the look of complete and utter loss that broke across Sherlock’s eyes struck John right to his core. 

Sherlock didn’t budge, the cheering quieted and the table full of blue emblemed students, as well as the rest of the Great Hall, grew uncomfortable. 

“Well,” the giant cleared his throat while he began to pull the hovering hat away from Sherlock’s head, “time to, uh, go join the other Ravenclaws-”

“No!” Sherlock shrieked and grasped the brim of hat with both of his hands, yanking it from Hagrid’s startled disbelief. “No! You cannot send me to Ravenclaw, that isn’t fair! You gave the previous girl a full minute and twenty to convince you to let her join Hufflepuff and here I am, not getting even so much as a parting glance before being shipped off to Ravenclaw!” Sherlock was fuming, raging, roughly tugging at the sentient hat. “Send her to Ravenclaw; give me her spot. _Put me in Hufflepuff!”_

John’s heart thudded heavy in his chest as he stared at his friend’s mad raving.

“All sorts are final,” the jagged tear at the brim grumbled.

“But I never _wore_ you! You didn’t let me-”

“Nothing you would have said would have changed my mind.” The hat straightened itself a bit, in some odd display of pride, “You boast absolutely no qualities Hufflepuff wants; Helga would be disappointed in me if I let you join her house. Slytherin was an option, but it was so brief it isn’t worth mentioning.” The hat smirked, “In fact, your attempts at Occlumency only solidified my choice in Ravenclaw because, while you had no evidence of the qualities to use to hide your true nature, the mere fact that you had the idea and the ability to attempt such a plan is just the finishing touch in my decision.”

“But I do. Not. Want. To. _Be_ in Ravenclaw!” Sherlock spat.

“You belong nowhere else better,” the hat huffed.

Sherlock looked nearly ready to scream, or breathe fire or catch fire… Or _cry._ “You’re wrong!”

“I am never wrong, boy.”

Sherlock’s expression blanked and he turned silent so abruptly John couldn’t help but get a sudden wave of gooseflesh rushing over him. Sherlock held the hat in front of him, still not uttering a single word, before placing it on the stool too deliberately. John felt an uneasy weight settle low in his gut and he took an unconscious step forward; muttering barely above a whisper, “Sherlock-”

“You were wrong today.” With no flourish, Sherlock’s wand slipped down his sleeve, landing easily in his hand as he immediately lifted it up in an exaggerated wand line. _“Incend-”_

A great snap followed by a clattering sound reverberated through the vaulted hall as Sherlock’s wand was flung from his hand and fell to the floor, rolling out of reach. Every head in the great all turned to the center witch, the Headmistress, and her wand as it aimed at the dark haired boy before her. They both narrowed their eyes at each other a moment before she spoke, “That’ll be _quite_ enough, Mr. Holmes. Collect your wand and then sit at your house table. Be thankful I’m not going to have you sent _right_ back home for that outburst.”

And, to John’s horror, Sherlock wouldn’t just _shut the bloody hell up._ “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You’d like someone to give up on their best friend and abandon any chance of being with them; just like you abandoned the love of your life for a cushy and pathetically boring job at the Ministry of Magic. Only then to give up on that one too a few years later once he married another… a Muggle woman.” McGonagall froze, no, _everyone_ froze at Sherlock’s scathing remark and yet the boy only kept going, “If a coward like you was sorted into the brave house of Gryffindor, how is it that I cannot be sorted into Hufflepuff to follow my only friend?” Sherlock looked down at the hat still sitting on the stool and pointed at it, “This thing is so useless it would be considered nothing less than the greatest act of _selflessness_ if I were to turn it to ash right here, right now, so no one else has to suffer its incompetence-”

_“Enough!”_ The Great Hall, which had already been silent turned deathly as breath seemed to stop coming to anyone at the Headmistress’ order. “My Office.” The old witch made her way around the table, stopping next to the giant, “Continue Hagrid.” John watched in disbelief as Sherlock effortlessly swept up his wand and stalked after the Headmistress out the large doors they had entered. 

“Ahem, right then…Hooper, Molly.”

The names were called and slowly the hall filled with awkward cheering and forced posturing and John couldn’t even remember any of the names that came after Sherlock’s and before his own. Couldn’t remember the sounds or faces of the other people sitting around him at the Hufflepuff table. Couldn’t be bothered to notice the food that appeared before him like magic was honestly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten before in his life. Couldn’t be bothered to remember if he had said hello to Greg when he had introduced himself and escorted them to their common room tucked behind barrels in the cellar beneath the Great Hall. Couldn’t remember to be happy that the room he was to call his was only his because the _only_ thing that stuck with him that night was that his greatest fear had come true:

He was alone in a world he knew nothing about.

_****_ ****

**_~~*~~_ **

“You’re a Legilimen.”

Sherlock scoffed in the seat he had been forced into, avoiding the eyes of the Headmistress because she was doing the same so what was even the point in looking her way if they weren’t going to make eye contact as they talked to each other? “Obviously.”

“Why wasn’t that noted by your father? Mr. Holmes should know the rules about unregistered natural Legilimen as a Ministry Official himself.” McGonagall folded her hands over themselves on her ornate desk.

He glared at the former headmaster portraits lining the walls around them in the office, “How should I know? Why not send him an owl inquiring about it instead of asking me?”

He heard the chair creak as she shifted, “You have remarkable control over it for someone your age. Generally an environment such as Hogwarts can cause a person to go mad if they haven’t learned enough-”

“Yes well, I’ve not _gone mad_ so I would prefer if this conversation steered away from my special needs and addressed the real concern at hand.” Sherlock turned his gaze to her as she stared at his forehead, “I want to be put into Hufflepuff.”

“I’m afraid that-”

“I wonder what it says about you that you traded what could have been a lifetime of happiness for positions of little more importance or power than a quill pusher.” She gave in at that and he found her eyes meeting his; though she had long since begun to actively block his Legilimency, and Sherlock’s smirk turned predatory, “Would you call it self-harming or commit to the dramatic flare by calling it suicidal when you would never have the courage to finish yourself off so you stay around for the emotional suffering? Maybe that’s just masochistic?” He leaned forward as her jaw tightened, “Tell me, Headmistress, how _did_ you convince the sorting hat to let you into Gryffindor? I really am-”

“Hogwarts has been around longer than anyone alive with traditions just as ancient; I will not go around breaking them just because you insult me.” She narrowed her eyes with a smirk of her own, “I’ll send you back home first.”

Sherlock tensed and pursed his lips at her while his leg’s bobbing steadily increased in speed, “Then put me in every one of John Watson’s classes.”

McGonagall’s eyebrow rose, “Mr. Watson is the boy you wanted to follow to Hufflepuff. But he would have been one of the last to be sorted, how could you be certain he would have been placed there?”

“It was the only logical outcome of all observable variables.” Sherlock’s eyes bore into her, “Kind, loyal, diligent… Hufflepuff couldn’t have asked for a more realized example of their ideals.”

Her own gaze softened, “He sounds like a wonderful boy.”

Caught off guard by her sudden change in expression, he tried to glare harder, “There’s no one better.”

_****_ ****

**_~~*~~_ **

“There you are John.”

Blonde hair flew as he whirled to face the pale boy settling into the dining table beside him. _“Sherlock!”_ John, not even caring about the scene he was making, brought his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders in a desperate hug. “I thought you got sent home.” _Gone._ “I thought I’d never see you again.”

John felt Sherlock’s reassuring pat on his back, even if the rest of him was awkwardly tense in John’s octopus hold, “You wound me, John. I told you I would never abandon you.”

John pulled back to look at his friend, “But you wouldn’t’ve been able to stop-”

“Oh, I did get punished, John. After threatening the Hogwarts Sorting Hat there was no doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t walk out of the Headmistress’ Office without some justifiable, albeit bothersome, reprimand.”

John frowned at Sherlock’s nonchalant attitude, “What-”

“A semester’s worth of after-classes detention and a few negative points given to Ravenclaw House; nothing to worry over I assure you.”

John gaped at him and tried not to let his anger show. He had learned from others that Hufflepuff had been paired with Gryffindor for all their classes which meant the only time he’d get to see his only friend was now at mealtime since Sherlock had squandered the after class hours due to his outburst. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and John’s control vanished, “Oh, I’m so glad none of that bothers _you_ any.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and he felt oddly exposed. “But it _does_ bother you.”

John released Sherlock and glared, “‘Course it does! Because, now, I don’t get to see my only friend ‘cept maybe at meal times. I was hoping we could hang out or do schoolwork or whatever it is wizards do after classes but now you’ve gone and got yourself detention until Christmas!”

Sherlock tilted his head, “Come with me.”

John recoiled, “What?”

“We’ve gone over how much I detest repeating myself, John,” Sherlock scrunched his nose at him. “Join me.”

“Join you… at detention?” John’s mouth fell open at Sherlock’s firm nod, “Why the bloody hell would I put _myself_ in detention?”

“Did you not just say you wanted my help with schoolwork?”

John bit his lip and glared at the remains of his breakfast, “I haven’t had my first lesson yet, how would I know if I actually- wait, no, that’s besides the point.” John closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose before returning Sherlock’s gaze, “What makes you think they would even let me follow you around during what is supposed to be your punishment?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and picked up John’s cup to drink from, “They most likely wouldn’t care so long as you aren’t _assisting_ me in my punishment.” He wrinkled his nose at the taste, “Could use more sugar, John.”

“Hey!” John swiped at his stolen cup, “That’s _my_ tea made how _I_ like it. If you want it another way, make it yourself.” After rescuing his cup John took a deliberate sip in reclamation before setting it on the other side of himself, far out of Sherlock’s reach. He watched Sherlock’s eyes follow the cup’s movement and their subsequent narrowing at its final location with a smug glee he tried not to make obvious. “Now, what is detention like for a wizard?”

Sherlock shrugged, giving up on the lost cup, and turned his attention back to John, “McGonagall didn’t specify anything, only that I would be assigned a professor a week and help them with whatever they needed for a few hours that day.”

“Like a teacher’s aid, that could be fun, actually.” John stuffed the forgotten jammed toast into his mouth, “Thought you’d have to sit in a room and stare at a wall or something. Like my old school.”

Sherlock smirked, “I believe that is considered a normal lesson.” John snorted and Sherlock’s smile widened, “No, I think it is far more likely that I will be assisting in preparing the next day’s lessons and or other odd tasks like grading submitted work.” Sherlock grimaced, “Or cleaning.”

John nibbled on a slice of bacon and nodded, “Yeah that sounds more like a punishment for you.” John grinned at him, “I bet you never cleaned a thing in your life, you posh git.”

Sherlock scowled at him, “I'll have you know I forbade our elf from stepping foot in my room; it is quite the process to handle the aftermath of certain experiments and I couldn’t risk her attempts at tidying up ruining something due to ignorance.”

John mulled over what Sherlock said, “Mm, yeah but that doesn’t mean you actually cleaned anything. I’m willing to bet you were more likely to toss it than bother.”

“There are times where there is no saving a contaminated piece of equipment.” John only hummed around the last strip of bacon he’d stuffed into his mouth and Sherlock huffed, “I am fully capable of cleaning a single room. My socks alone are meticulously maintained by my own hands; colours, patterns, lengths and fabrics are all accounted for when deciding upon their proper placements.”

“You organize your socks?” John choked down the dry crumbles of the bacon and reached for his tea without tearing his eyes from Sherlock’s.

Masterfully sculpted brows collapsed toward each other, “It isn’t merely organization, John, but an _index_. Don’t tell me you mix your socks.”

John shrugged but his grin was rueful, “If the colour’s close, and I’m wearing trousers, it’s good enough for me.” Sherlock’s eyes and mouth widened as his dark curls suddenly disappeared under the table and John’s robe and trouser legs were hiked up. “Whoa! Hey, now, Sherlock-”

Sherlock shot back up and his pale eyes drilled into John’s, “You aren’t matching.”

“Darn,” John’s lips twitched as he tried to fight back the smile, “and here I thought today was my lucky day; shoulda’ known it was too easy to find a pair this morning.” Sherlock recoiled with the most bemused disgust John had ever seen. The pale boy suddenly rose from the bench and stared pointedly at him; John quirked his brow in a quiet response.

“The state of your socks is unacceptable.”

John raised his other brow as he placed the cup back down, “Are you going to _index_ my socks, Sherlock?”

“Obviously.”

John chuckled, “While that’s oddly nice of you, you really don't have to do that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him, “Oh, but I _do._ ”

John was about to insist that it really wasn’t a big deal to him but he was startled into silence by the seriousness in Sherlock’s eyes and voice. John downed the last of his tea with a cheek stretching gulp and stood up. “Alright, Sherlock. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock’s face eased into that of a cat’s after tasting cream, “Yes. Good.”


	10. Dormitories

Sherlock watched with rapt attention as John brandished his wand at a pile of barrels in an alcove past a still life portrait of a rather boring assortment of fruit. John mumbled to himself while tapping a synced rhythm on the top of one of the barrels and a deep long groan filled the warm cellar.

“There we go; thought I’d forgotten it after only seeing Greg do it once.”

Sherlock stepped beside John as they both watched the barrels shift and roll aside to show a quaint round entrance behind and Sherlock frowned as he stooped to follow John as they moved under the low entrance. The circular door opened for them and the warmth and coziness that assaulted Sherlock’s senses forced a sigh out of him he hadn’t expected.

John chuckled beside him.

Every muscle in his body immediately relaxed and Sherlock just stood there basking in the warmth of the large hearth in the center of the far wall. Sunlight sprinkled in from between the grass and weeds and flowers that swayed around the edges of the oval windows above. Obscenely plush sofas, armchairs and floor pillows dominated the common room, and each were covered in many layers of folded afghans and duvets that Sherlock just _knew_ were handmade with care and warmth in mind. There were others in the common room, lounging and chatting and everything was so wonderfully muffled that Sherlock couldn’t make out what any of them were saying, as if the air itself was like wading through a cotton cloth.

Sherlock was rooted in place, unwilling to move. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah, it's pretty nice here.”

Sherlock looked down at John, “Why would you ever _leave?_ ”

John smiled at him and shrugged, “Gotta eat. Though I’m glad I did anyway; wouldn’t’ve seen you otherwise.”

Sherlock nodded, the warmth seeping into his bones was a far cry more enjoyable than the crisp sharpness of Ravenclaw Tower. The students of Hufflepuff had also shown far less animosity towards him than in his own house. Though Sherlock supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at their reaction, considering he did cost them thirty points towards the pointlessness of The House Cup. But he suspected it had more to do with how publicly he had made his displeasure known about being sent to them. He didn’t want to be there and so they, in turn, hadn’t wanted him there either. 

Especially since he had wanted to go to _Hufflepuff_ instead.

Sherlock’s signature smirk couldn’t go anywhere near its normal smugness and the light jab into his arm from John’s had him facing the boy curiously as he was torn from his thoughts.

John jerked a thumb to a circular tunnel to the left, “Wanna get working on that index?”

Sherlock nodded and followed after John as he led the way through a network of smooth tunnels until he came to a round door that had “John H. Watson” in golden script artfully etched at eye-level. He tapped his rowan wand at his name, twice on the first ‘o’ and once one the last, and a dull click sounded before it sunk into the floor revealing the room beyond.

John moved aside, gesturing for Sherlock to go first and he stepped over the threshold into the small space that was apparently only John’s. He heard the door slide back up into place after John came inside and Sherlock took in the meager furnishings: a single bed, a large oak dresser, a simple desk and chair, and an ever-burn torch along the far wall below an oval window identical to the ones lining the top of the walls in the common room. “You don’t room share with another Hufflepuff.”

John shook his head as he plopped down into the black and yellow duvet covering the bed, “Surprised me too, honestly. Greg said there’s more than enough space for them to build more rooms if they need ‘em, but, usually, there's enough 7th years leaving so they don’t need to.” John looked up at him, “Do you share?”

Sherlock sneered as he moved towards the dresser to begin, “Unfortunately. The Ravenclaw Tower has only so many storeys and even though magic could be used to make more floors, there are far too many students to give everyone their own.” John didn’t use words in response, merely a hum, and Sherlock steadily tore through each drawer from top to bottom. John had obviously never organized _anything_ of his in his life and Sherlock found himself taking on a far larger problem than he had anticipated. Forget socks, the Muggle-born had his pants just tossed about in bunches and shoved into corners in any drawer he could find. 

Sherlock didn’t notice the creak of the mattress as John appeared beside him, flushing and stuttering, “Hey! You said you’d only index my socks, not my _pants._ ”

“Your situation is far worse than even I had anticipated. Besides,” Sherlock retrieved a startlingly festive pair of pants from under a t-shirt and folded it into a perfect rectangle, “I need to make room.”

“Make room?” John stared at him with a worried look, “Make room for what?”

“Me.”

John gaped at him, “Wait, what? Why?”

Sherlock continued to condense John’s, honestly meager, wardrobe down from four drawers into a respectable two and a half, “Because I don’t believe either of us would enjoy my clothes cluttering up the only table in the room.”

“No, I-” John groaned and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm, twisting him around to face him instead of his clothes, “Sherlock why would you need to make room for your stuff here?”

Sherlock frowned over the waistband of a particularly ‘fun’ patterned pair of pants, “I’m moving into this room.”

John’s grip on his arm tightened as did the blond’s face, “Wha- where am I supposed to go, then?”

“You’ll be staying, obviously; I’m merely joining you.”

John swallowed and Sherlock watched the nervous movement of the boy’s developing Adam’s apple, “You’re joining me.” Sherlock nodded. “Moving in.” Sherlock blinked, frowned, but nodded again. “With me.”

Sherlock groaned and looked to the ceiling as he dropped the fresh rectangle onto the others, “What have I told you about making me repeat myself John?”

John bristled, “You cannot move into my room!”

“Why not?”

John blinked rapidly before flinging his other arm out toward his bed, “There’s no space for you! Where will you sleep?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Sleep? Sleep’s boring. If that’s all you're concerned about then-”

“That’s not _‘all I’m concerned about’_.” John imitated as he stood a little straighter, “This is my room, Sherlock. Mine. My own. No one else in Hufflepuff shares a room. Bloody hell, you aren’t even _in_ Hufflepuff and yet you wanna stay in its dormitory.”

Sherlock swallowed the bile threatening to vacate his stomach as a lump of cold unease moved in, “I didn’t want to be Ravenclaw.” Sherlock lowered his gaze and mumbled to the floor, “I wanted to be a Hufflepuff like you, John.”

John’s expression turned gentle, “Sherlock-”

“They hate me there; _despise_ me,” Sherlock bit out between clenched teeth. “I cost them their _precious_ house points; points they hadn’t even yet earned to lose.”

John stared at him a moment, “You weren't all that subtle about not wanting to be there, either I suppose.”

Sherlock pursed his lips as he stared at the messy top drawer, “I wasn’t, no.”

John sighed through his nose before clapping his hand onto the pale boy’s shoulder, “Well, I guess we should go get your things then, eh?”

**_~~*~~_ **

“Should I be concerned that _that_ was the answer?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the great bronze eagle opened the door before them, revealing the lavishly decorated Ravenclaw common room. “There was no _answer_ , John, merely a response.”

“I don’t-“

“And that is why I had to follow you to Hufflepuff.”

John hardly spent any time taking in the airy and open common room with heavy bronze objects wrapped in flowing blue accents. “Sherlock…”

“Oh, don’t be like that, John. The riddle to get inside the Ravenclaw Tower is hardly a mental whetstone.” Sherlock turned quickly toward the archway leading to a spiral staircase, pointedly avoiding the heated glares their way, “It’s nothing more than a way for Ravenclaws to feel superior in the only way their egos will allow them.”

John followed quietly behind him up the seven flights of stairs, “But to cut off a _leg._ ”

Sherlock glanced at him as they stopped on the door at the eighth landing, “What would have taken _you_ a month would have taken me mere seconds to lose the same amount of weight.” Sherlock tilted his chin up, “The eagle said nothing about needing to remain fully intact - it only wanted the fastest method to lose it.”

John scratched the back of his head, “Can’t say I would’ve thought of it like that.”

Sherlock huffed as he shoved open the dark wood door, “And after today, neither of us will have to think about anything so pointlessly hypothetical ever again.”

Neither of the boys took a single step into the lavishly breezy room because the amount of shredded clothes piling atop the blue bedspread on the four-poster directly across the door was in stark contrast to the decadent design. Sherlock stayed so still he hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing until the boy next to him cursed.

“Christ, Sherlock, tell me those aren’t-”

“Don’t be stupid, of course those are mine.” Sherlock knew he shouldn’t’ve insulted John but it just slipped out before he could stop his stupid mouth.

John squared his shoulders, ground his teeth and stomped to the desecrated bed with enough force Sherlock was sure the floor below felt the vibrations. Sherlock really shouldn’t’ve felt so pleased at the thought of dust falling onto the heads of those under them but, then again, Sherlock shouldn’t be a lot of things. Sherlock watched, still unmoving from the threshold of the eighth floor, as John began picking through the strips of cloth and sliced shoes and torn pages that made a mound taller than the boy rifling through them.

Sherlock felt a twinge in his chest at the sight of the remains of his Chemistry textbook but continued in spite of the unnecessary damage. “And here I thought Ravenclaw was supposed to be home to those who favoured pursuits of the mind.” 

John stilled, buried up to his elbows in every possession Sherlock had save what was on his very person, and slowly turned to face him, “Sher-” John’s eyes shifted away from his own and to the space over his shoulder behind him and Sherlock mentally chastised himself for being so lost in his own reaction that he had allowed someone to come up behind him.

“Well, well, well. if it ain’t the Freak,” a voice drawled and Sherlock pivoted gracefully to come face to face with a trio of boys he vaguely recognized from the rest of the mess of first-years during the sorting last night. All three were smirking at him although the center one, hair fiery and slicked-back, had taken it to another level by sneering at him in a way that Sherlock was all too familiar with from his very first day after he had turned seven. 

_He knew._

Hell, Sherlock was sure all three of them knew because none of them would make direct eye-contact with him. Every one of them was staring either just off to the side of his head or directly at a point on his face that wasn’t his eyes. 

“You cost us ten galleons each by not coming back for your things last night.” The center boy glared at Sherlock’s nose, “Lot of us were sure you were going to be expelled. _I_ was sure.”

Sherlock tilted his chin up, “It appears the sorting hat was wrong again: only an idiot would think the school would risk losing someone of my innate ability to something as benign as attempted arson.”

The boy bristled and forgot to control his gaze long enough to allow it to flick to Sherlock’s icy blue, “Being a Legilimen doesn’t make you better-”

“Actually, it does.” Sherlock’s grin bared full teeth, “Who do you think would be more useful to the wizarding world? A wizard who might have a _minor_ talent for mind-affecting potions, or the natural Legilimen who has no qualms about letting the rest of the room know how much the other _fancies_ his older sister?” 

The tension in the room skyrocketed as both the dark haired boys behind the redhead took a deliberate step back in disgust. The boy’s face shifted from peach to red to purple so fast Sherlock hadn’t had time to do more than register that same boy’s fist flying towards his face.

_“Protego!”_

There was a sickening crunch and a delightful scream as the Ravenclaw’s fist collided with an invisible shield that had formed a scant few centimeters in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock stared in wonderment at the writhing boy as he cradled a broken hand to his chest, only shifting away when his line of sight was broken by a sandy blonde head that moved between them.

“I’d suggest gettin’ that one looked at if I were you.” John’s voice was a low growl that had the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stiffen, “I hear the nurse in the infirmary can mend broken bones in a heartbeat when someone’s stupid enough to pick a fight with a wall.”

The trio looked at John in fear, the injured one in downright _terror_ , and, even though Sherlock relished those expressions as selfishly as if he had put them there, he truly desired nothing more than to see the look on John’s face right at that very moment. 

“John.”

The Hufflepuff didn't turn around until he had slammed the door after the three boys had tumbled down the spiral staircase out of sight. The look that greeted Sherlock was most definitely not one that would instill heart stopping fear into those who look upon it. No, but it was one that had Sherlock’s heart stopping for an entirely different reason.

John looked to Sherlock, who found nothing but concern in every striation of the blonde’s dark irises, “Yeah?”

Miraculously, Sherlock found the ability to speak in the face of John’s utter compassion, “Your reaction time was quite impressive.”

John stared at him another moment before he threw back his head in laughter, “You git, you were testing me weren’t you?”

Sherlock smirked, “I have to make sure my partner is capable of covering my back.”

John grinned, “That tosser was going right for your face, mate.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Semantics.” John closed his eyes briefly while shaking his head in disbelief and Sherlock was compelled to add, “You should feel proud, John; your ability to project a Shield Charm after less than a day of being able to cast it is quite the accomplishment.”

The blonde’s face turned a brilliant pink that had crept from the base of his neck and had spread with a speed Sherlock was sure that, had he blinked, he would have missed the transition. John scratched the back of his head and darted his gaze away back toward the other side of the room, “C’mon, Sherlock, let’s get your stuff back to mine. Maybe we can find a way to get you new clothing and books before classes tomorrow.”


	11. Reactions

John took the lead, letting Sherlock’s trunk float between them, as they entered the Hufflepuff common room. All the tension he had coiled up since the confrontation in Ravenclaw Tower vanished so quickly it was his turn to sigh out loud under the relentless relaxing aura of the Hufflepuff Hearth. _Sherlock’s right, why_ would _I ever want to leave this place?_

“John! How’re- Hang on, what’re _you_ doing here, _Ravenclaw_?”

John turned his head to the older boy who had shot up from one of the armchairs facing a group of Hufflepuffs lounging on a pile of floor pillows. “Hi, Greg-”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m heading to my room, prefect.” John winced at the haughty tone of his friend behind him and moved to intercept Greg’s quickly souring expression.

“Well then, I do believe you’re going the _wrong_ way. Ravenclaw _Tower_ is across the castle to the south,” Greg had moved directly before Sherlock and John only barely made it in time to place himself between them.

“Greg, he isn’t going back there.” John stood straight and as tall as he could in the face of the sixteen year old glaring suspiciously at his friend, “I’m letting him stay with me.”

The prefect scowled at Sherlock, and John had the sneaking suspicion that the dark haired boy had smirked at him, _bloody git_ , before he shifted his gaze onto John’s. “He isn’t a Hufflepuff, he can’t stay in the Hufflepuff dormitory.” Greg’s expression relaxed as he placed a warm hand on John’s shoulder, “Look, I get it, he’s your best mate. Through thick and thin, till the end and all that, but, listen, rules are rules. He was sorted into Ravenclaw and that’s where he needs to be.”

John tensed and threw off Greg’s reassuring hand with a rough jerk of his shoulder, “You don’t understand.” John turned around and unlocked Sherlock’s trunk to fling it open, revealing the shredded remains of his friend’s possessions. “This is what his roommates, his _family_ , have done to him while he wasn’t in the dorm.” Greg was speechless, frowning but speechless as he stared hard at the hate-filled destruction before him and so John continued on, “This morning his things were ruined but tomorrow could be him. I’m not letting him go back there, back to _them._ ” John slammed the trunk shut, breaking Greg’s trance so the older boy would look John in the eye, “Either he stays in my room or I stay in his.”

Greg glanced at Sherlock a moment before returning to John, “Look, John-”

“Nope.” John shook his head firmly while keeping his eyes open and trained on Greg’s, “No. Either he stays or I go. I’m not abandoning my friend just because of a stupid house rule when they can’t even bother to make sure the students don’t trash each other’s stuff.”

Greg’s eyes flicked between the two of them again before he closed them to sigh and run a hand where the back of his head met his neck, “Merlin’s beard, classes haven’t even started yet…” He dropped his hand, letting it point at John as he stared hard at him, “Take him to your room and keep him there. No wandering and no spells.” He shifted his attention to the boy behind John, “I’m serious: _none._ ” He dropped his hand the rest of the way and straightened up, “I’ll go talk with the Heads, maybe _they’ll_ be able to talk some sense into you two.”

John watched as the prefect left before turning back to Sherlock, a shuddering breath escaping between a weak smile.

Sherlock smirked at him, “That sorting hat really _is_ incompetent; you’d have made for quite a promising Gryffindor.”

__

_**~~*~~** _

“I don’t understand why we are even having this discussion; it is quite obvious what our correct course of action should be.”

The headmistress blinked slowly before turning to the red haired professor, “I’ve already given the child detention for half the year, do I simply give him the rest of it? Or do you expect me to expel the boy?”

“For what; staying in the incorrect dormitory? Please.” The pudgy professor on the other side of the table scoffed while leaning forward in his seat, “If neither Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw will have them, Slytherin will gladly give them _both_ a home.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Horace. I never said anything about casting them from Hufflepuff,” A witch with inky hair huffed with disdain at the balding Slytherin. “That would be going against the very core of what Helga wanted with her house if I started tossing out students.”

McGonagall pursed her lips and brought her interlaced fingers up to rest against them. The first professor glared at Slughorn, “Your single-mindedness towards that little Slug Club of yours is pathetic.”

The head of Slytherin only laughed, “And you’re a fool if you think I’d squander such an opportunity.” He looked at the headmistress, “The Holmes boy is astonishingly gifted, not just for the Legilimency, but his magical ability might be on par with fifth years. I’ve very reliable sources that tell me he had received his wand from Ollivander right at the age of seven.”

“‘Sources’?” the defense against the dark arts professor balked at him, “ _Sources!_ You’ve devolved into digging up rumours and gossip on students before classes have even begun?”

“When one comes from a family of his caliber, yes, of course. _I’d_ be the fool not to.” Slughorn grumbled, “The boy has better pedigree than any student in the whole year. His potential was already unquestionably high before we discovered his innate Legilimency.” He turned a pleading look toward McGonagall, “Do we really want to lose such a promising student to another school (his mother is an alumnus from Beauxbatons who I am sure would have no issues taking in the boy) for something as trivial as staying in the incorrect dormitory after he’s experienced a rather frightening display of hatred from his fellow Housemates.”

“Before we get too far into the discussion regarding the Holmes boy’s _talents_ , let’s address what transpired in Ravenclaw Tower.” McGonagall broke Slughorn’s spiel as she stared at the shortest professor at the table. “Can you explain to me why none of the elves reported a pile of ruined clothing during their nightly sweep?”

The tiny Head of Ravenclaw adjusted in his seat to sit higher as he squeaked out, “The three boys claim they hadn’t directly done the deed, only having found the vandalism once they awoke in the morning. Their wands confirm none of them having cast the spells necessary to accomplish the task. Holmes didn’t return to collect his things in the Tower last night like the three thought he would if he were expelled as punishment and they weren’t anything but pleased at someone having done something to vent their anger.” Filius grimaced, “There was a sizable amount of Galleons lost between several students across multiple houses upon discovery of the boy still being enrolled after his outburst at the ceremony last night.”

McGonagall frowned as she turned to face the seventh year boy and girl who were with them at the table, “Correct me if I am wrong but I do believe I instructed you to escort him to Ravenclaw Tower.”

Both of them nodded, though it was the Head Boy who spoke up, “Yes, ma’am, we did. He even answered the riddle supplied by the bronze eagle all on his own.” 

The two students shared an uneasy glance at each other before the girl continued, “Though we didn’t go into the common room with him, as we assumed he would have just gone up and found his own bed himself.”

McGonagall rubbed at both of her temples while Slughorn chuckled, “So the boy very easily could have slipped right back out to Merlin knows where as none of the professors patrolling the castle reported seeing him after curfew.”

The Headmistress stared at the potion’s master with obvious displeasure but didn’t comment as the Head of Gryffindor spoke, “The room of requirement could easily have been something he stumbled upon.”

McGonagall sighed, “Yes, yes; alright.” She waved a dismissive hand over the table, “We can sit here all day and argue about where the boy might’ve spent the night if not in his dormitory but first we need to agree on where he will be spending the rest of the year.”

“As I’ve stated before, Slytherin would be more than happy to-”

“Don’t send both of them to a different house, it’s only the Holmes boy that’s the problem.”

Slughorn glared at the red haired man, “It’s obvious the boy is determined to follow his friend who was sorted into Hufflepuff. You can’t honestly believe Holmes would willingly change Houses if the Watson boy wasn’t also there. Remind me why your input is even relevant. If memory serves you aren’t the head of _any_ house, Holston.”

Holston folded his arms over his chest, “If you think I’m gonna sit here and watch you sink your slimy, greedy little fangs into another student-”

“Enough!” The table quieted abruptly at the Headmistress’ order as she turned her attention back to the half-goblin wizard, “Thoughts, Filius?”

The Charms professor met McGonagall’s eyes with fierce determination, “What happened to the boy is extremely unfortunate and I take full responsibility for failing to account for how the other students might behave regarding the Holmes boy’s reaction to being sorted into my House.” He sighed then, “However; I realize that it may not be so easy to keep him in Ravenclaw if he is adamant about not staying there.” He nodded at the head of Gryffindor, “Longbottom has a point, the room of requirement is only one of no doubt many options for the boy if he is determined enough to stay away from Ravenclaw Tower.” Filius donned a rueful smile as he returned his eyes to McGonagall, “And you’re right, what more can we do to the boy if he decides to be obstinate? More detention?” The half-goblin chuckled while shaking his head, “Take _more_ points from my already wounded house?” 

McGonagall nodded as she looked toward the black haired witch sitting across her, “Wendy?”

The Head of Hufflepuff slid a smug look at the Head of Slytherin, “Hufflepuff has more than enough room, what’s one more boy?”

McGonagall mumbled to herself as she gazed down onto the table, “A seat in every Hufflepuff class and now a bed in the Hufflepuff dormitory. If not for the emblem on his robes one might forget what house he was sorted to.”

“Headmistress, ma’am,” Hagrid laid his massive arms onto the table with his palms up, “I know the Sortin’ Hat’s been around a long time, but even - an’ I mean no disrespect - Dumbledore ‘imself’s said he’s thought the hat might be a bit done at this point.”

Her old features softened at his words and nodded gently before turning a stern look towards the Head Boy and Girl, “Have Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson brought to my office after lunch.”

“Yes!” The two students chimed as one.

McGonagall straightened and layered one hand atop the other in front of her, “Now then, how confident is everyone in their Occlumency?”


	12. Negotiations

“Sherlock, I don’t think-”

“You really should try, John, it’s rather enjoyable.”

John groaned as he fell backwards onto the bed while Sherlock cast spell after spell on the ruined remains in the trunk; every item his magic touched slowly became like new once again and John couldn’t help the nervousness creep up his spine as his friend so blatantly ignored the threat of the upperclassman. “But Greg said-”

“Lestrade’s an idiot, and a prefect, he has an image to maintain by enforcing stupid rules. It is one of the many delegations assigned to him from people who have far better things to do with their time.” Sherlock finished another shoe and effortlessly floated it over to its other half beside the dresser. He lowered his wand and shifted his focus toward the boy half-laying on the bed beside him. “The chances of me getting caught _breaking the rules_ could exponentially lessen if I had some assistance.”

John nibbled on the inside of his cheek before sighing and tossing his arms out before him to crunch his way upright. “Alright, fine,” he drew out the word while also drawing his wand from his sleeve. Their blue eyes met, “It was Repair-o right?”

Sherlock smirked, “Let’s work on your pronunciation first.” 

John grimaced at the imminent recitation, “It’s just Repair with an ‘o’ on the end, Sherlock. It’s nothing so weird as Episkey.”

Sherlock frowned, “It is not ‘Reh-p _air_ ’ at all. It is R _eh_ -PAH- _R_ oh. Use your ears, John. _Listen._ ”

“What the bloody difference does that make?” John matched Sherlock’s scowl, he really didn’t want to spend the next fifteen minutes of his life mindlessly repeating a word until Sherlock was satisfied he wouldn’t bugger it up, “The spell is to repair something, so I say _Reh-pair-oh_ , that!” John points wildly at the trunk with his wand and there is a sudden explosion of strips of cloth and shreds of paper as the trunk bucked into the air and spewed forth its entire contents throughout the earthen room.

_Oh._

“Spectacular, John. Astonishing, really.”

John removed the strip of black wool that had landed squarely across his eyes as he sheepishly looked toward his friend. The sarcasm dripping from every purposefully pronounced syllable threatened to drown him quicker than the embarrassment that was stifling his ability to breathe. “I’m sor-”

“Yes, well, now that your _idiocy_ has been actualized.” Sherlock swept at stray buttons tangled in his dark curls, “Are you ready to do what I tell you?” At John’s shy nod Sherlock straightened up, “Good. Repeat after me.”

After twenty grueling minutes of repeating the incantation (in which John knew he had it correct after only ten but was sure Sherlock was punishing him for earlier) Sherlock finally allowed John to try the wandline. And that _did_ take a bit longer than either of the other two spells had. 

It was an odd wandline, one that John could only describe as a triangle with a pointy end facing downward and the flat side of the shape ending slightly under itself instead of connecting. For some reason he kept absently completing the triangle when he tried to do it in time with the duration of the incantation which, according to Sherlock, was a failure. He also failed to make the corners sharp enough; or made the triangle too long; or made the ending line too long and it touched the first downward slant; or he bloody _breathed_ wrong causing the whole triangle to tilt slightly to one side. It was all rather unbelievably stressful.

And John loved every second of it. 

So, when he finally completed the wandline in a way Sherlock deemed adequate, (and proved he hadn’t forgotten how to pronounce the magic word) _and_ he was allowed to actually try casting the spell, John was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“If you continue to convulse, John, I’ll take you straight to the infirmary.”

“Sorry Sherlock. I’m just excited to get to use magic again.”

Sherlock smirked, “Even in the face of violating the rules? My, my John, I didn’t know you had such a rebellious spirit.”

John gave his friend a grin and a jab with his elbow, “It’s all your fault, you wanker; you’re a bad influence on me.”

“Mm, who knew I had such charisma?” Sherlock’s voice lowered as he tilted his chin up under what shouldn’t have been a compliment. “I wonder what other rules I can get you to break.”

“Hey!” John laughed, “I’m already following you to your detention; don’t land me with any of my own.”

“Ah, but then we would be partners in crime together, John, think of it!” Sherlock leaned closer, grinning wildly with stars in his eyes, “A dastardly duo, twins of terror, scheming scourges of the-”

“Yeah, okay, fine, Sherlock. Whatever trouble you make I’ll be right there helping you cause it. Can we just get back to the spell, please?” John was trying to stay focused, and failing, because his heart was swelling with the prospect of Sherlock and he becoming infamous throughout the school as friends who both succeeded and failed and suffered together. Unbreakable. Inseparable. One was not without the other. One could not _be_ without the other.

But then he remembered that they were both in different Houses and, even if Sherlock was able to stay with him today, once classes started they wouldn’t see each other until meals and Sherlock’s detention.

“Oh, did I not tell you, John?” Sherlock’s voice brought John out of his sudden onset of depression, “I’m in all of your classes.”

John froze, mouth hanging open as he stared at his friend, “What? How- I thought the Ravenclaw and Slytherin students were paired together for lessons.”

“They are.”

John recoiled in confusion, “But then-”

“McGonagall,” Sherlock responded simply, and John still didn’t understand. The pale boy shrugged, “It’s simple really, she punished Ravenclaw house for my threatening of incineration of the Sorting Hat and warned me to behave. I told her she could drain every sapphire from the hourglass for all I cared because I wanted to be with you. She told me none of the Ravenclaw classes were paired with Hufflepuff and so I told her I’d just find what classes you were in and go there myself. She threatened me with detention for the year and I agreed.” 

John blinked at him. “You agreed to a year’s worth of detention just to be in the same class as Hufflepuff?”

Sherlock scowled at him, “No. I agreed to the year of detention to be in the same class as _you_ , John.”

John felt like his heart would burst at the realization of what Sherlock had sacrificed in order to stay together and John’s conviction was now through pain of death in regards to joining Sherlock into his daily detention sessions. “Wait, hang on: you said you agreed to McGonagall’s offer of the whole year’s worth of detention.” Sherlock nodded. “Then how come you told me it’s until Christmas?”

“Well, normally, detention is either handled over the weekends or only twice a week after classes so students don’t fall behind in their lessons. I told her that if my detention was every single day I would fulfill the entire year’s sentence before the holidays, thus leaving her more opportunities to threaten punishment should I misbehave further.”

John had a sloppy grin on his face as he stared at the boy next to him on the bed, “You _told_ her to give you detention every day of the week?”

“I negotiated the terms of my punishment in such a way so that both parties were satisfied and offered a more beneficial arrangement, yes.” Sherlock nodded before tilting his head slightly, “Though she was the one that decided to give me the weekends off. Saying something about it might be considered unusually cruel to give me absolutely no days of reprieve.”

“She had to _offer_ you the weekends off?”

Sherlock’s brows closed in towards each other, “No need to worry; I had her reconfirm that I would still be done by the beginning of the calendar year before I accepted her new conditions.”

John smiled in disbelief at his friend’s, utterly mad, train of thought that led him to come up with the idea of condensing a desidingly annoying year-long punishment into a brutal gauntlet of unending torment. And even then he was the one who had to be convinced to lessen the ordeal. “You’re bloody mental.”

Sherlock recoiled with hurt as he failed to suppress it from his face, “John, I-”

“And wonderfully, amazingly, _fantastically_ brilliant.”

Sherlock’s mouth clamped shut as a rose tint raced up his neck to cover every inch of skin right up to the tips of his ears. John watched as his, no longer pale, friend awkwardly cleared his throat and avoided meeting his eyes. “Mm, yes, of course I am. Now then, I believe it’s time for you to get to work repairing my socks, John, I need to start on their index.”

__

_**~~*~~** _

“Sherlock….”

“Yes, John?”

He let the completed sock fall into his hand to join the other, “It’s been an hour.”

“And?”

John looked at his friend’s back as he continued his strategic reshuffling of freshly mended clothing, “It’s after twelve.”

“Ah, you’re hungry. Alright, go and eat; I’ll be here when you return.” Sherlock didn’t even look up from fussing about in one of John’s claimed drawers, only sparing a wriggling hand towards the door to dismiss him.

John pushed himself off the bed and stomped over to stand beside his friend. He tossed the unfolded pair of argyle patterned socks amongst the steadily progressing organization of, in John’s opinion, far too many socks and tried not to find the horrified gasp from the curly haired boy so rewarding. “Oh no you don’t; you’re coming with. Don’t think I didn’t notice you had nothing but a sip of my tea this morning for breakfast.”

“Eating is boring, John. Meals are a waste of my-” Sherlock’s words tumbled back down his throat as John gripped Sherlock’s wrist with one hand and slammed the drawer shut with the other as he quickly began pulling the startled boy away from it. There was a strangled whine as Sherlock strained against John’s strength to return to his clothing, “But John, my _index-_ ”

John just continued to tug the dark haired boy out the room and down the hall leading to the common room, “Won’t index itself. It’ll be fine, Sherlock. It’ll be just how you left it ‘til we get back.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, making an annoyingly valiant effort of dragging his heels against John’s manhandling, but closed his mouth with a snap of his teeth at the warning glare from the leading boy. Defeated, Sherlock quickened his pace so he was walking beside John instead of being dragged by him, “Alright, John, I acquiesce to your desire for lunch.”

“You make it sound like you’re surrendering your puppy to the pound, Sherlock.” John let out a strained chuckle and released his hold, “Tell you what? I’ll make you a cuppa just how you like it.”

One side of Sherlock’s lips quirked in response, “Bribing your friend into disregarding an order to stay put? I’ll make a delinquent of you yet.” John only beamed a wicked smile in return as they exited the Hufflepuff common room and made their way to the Great Hall.

__

_**~~*~~** _

Sherlock would never admit it to John but it wasn’t just the pointlessness that made him apprehensive towards lunchtime, not truly, no; It was the _others_ that would no doubt also be there. A thousand eyes leading to hundreds of minds just open and vulnerable and grating and suffocating and-

“You alright there, Sherlock?”

Sherlock came back from the delving of his mind as the sound of John’s voice reeled him to the surface. He looked at the blonde boy who had stopped not two steps away just before the threshold of the massive dining hall and tried to reassure him with a smile he knew wouldn’t reach his voice, “Yes, nothing to worry about, John. Come along, we should find a place to sit before the rest of the students arrive.”

Sherlock steeled his back and forced his strides long and confident as he led John to an empty portion near the end of the Hufflepuff table. He could feel the eyes on him and the sudden drop in chatter upon his arrival was all too obviously because of it. But he wasn’t bothered by it if only because John, wonderful and honest John, hadn’t yet picked up on the sudden shift in the atmosphere of the room as he was far too busy keeping up with Sherlock’s purposeful strides toward their seat. Sherlock hadn’t even finished spinning around to face the food laden table before John settled in next to him at the bench to immediately swipe the kettle of water, milk, and a teabag from a nearby wooden box. 

The efficiency with which John brewed them both cups of tea was soothing in some odd way to Sherlock. The confident and precise movements of his blonde friend surprised him and he found himself saddened by the realization, as he watched John take that first sip of tea, that he had missed John’s tea routine from this morning.

“Ahh,” John’s whole body seemed to relax at that first sip and Sherlock was mesmerised. John glanced at him and gestured with his chin, “Well, aren’t you gonna try it? I put sugar in it, just like you said you liked it.”

“Oh, um, yes. Thank you.” Sherlock took a perfunctory sip, intending to set it back down and forget about it, but then the taste fully settled over his pallet and Sherlock found himself stunned. Staring at the cup Sherlock swallowed another sip in reverence, “It’s good.”

“Ta,” John grinned at him before setting his cup off to the side and positioning his plate closer to himself. “Blimey, there’s so much here I haven’t a clue where to start.”

Sherlock took another sip, enjoying the feel of the warm cup in his hands and against his lips as he stared out over the rim at the medley of food before them. Whole wheels of cheese and loaves of bread and blocks of butter beside both pulled and sliced chunks of meat. Ladles poking out of thick steaming stews next to a rainbow of soups. There were even several different bowls of fruits with berries beside the only smattering of green visible for what seemed like miles (if you ignored the slytherin table against the far wall) in the massive crystal bowl of tossed lettuce directly in the center of their portion of the hall-length table.

And John seemed to have want of it _all_.

“You really missed out on some amazing breakfast, Sherlock. They had everything you could ever want. Mum rarely made a full English; even on Sundays.” John chatted while piling high from everything he could get his hands on. Sherlock fleetingly thought there must be a God because there was no other explanation for John’s finger’s to be able to wrap themselves around the sandwich that was easily thicker than his head was tall. 

Sherlock watched as John began tackling the cube of meats and cheese and it wasn’t until John stopped mid bite to stare back at him did he realize his tea had long been emptied. He placed it back onto the table, making a show of pushing it towards John.

John carefully lowered his hardly quartered meal to take a deliberate sip of his own cup while staring at Sherlock. “Kettle and bag are all right there.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, “I believe you were the one who offered-”

“Only said I’d make you _a_ cuppa.” John took another sip, a daring smile as he swallowed, “And I did.”

Sherlock whined, “John…”

John rolled his eyes, “Eat something and maybe I’ll think about it when I finish mine.”

Sherlock frowned at him but saw that John wasn’t going to back down and huffed. He picked a thick slice of wheat bread, slathered butter on it and took one bite before letting it drop onto the plate in front of him. “There. Tea, please, John.”

John looked hard at the measly lunch on Sherlock’s plate before meeting his icy gaze, “Ham, bacon, chicken or...”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted.

The blonde nodded, “Cheese it is then.” He leaned over and grabbed a particularly thick wedge of cheddar from the board before them and placed it onto Sherlock’s once bitten bread. “Tomato? I’m quite partial to a fresh one and do these ones look-”

“John-”

“Just one slice then,” and John placed a brilliantly ripe red slice right atop the cheese before reaching for another slice of wheat. 

“John, I will not eat-”

Having finished buttering the slice, John (perhaps a bit more forceful than was necessary) slapped the buttered bread down to complete Sherlock’s lunch. “Oh yes you will,” The smile on John’s face was far from the sweet fondness between friends and was, instead, a warning dare Sherlock knew wouldn’t be worth the effort of arguing against because he could so easily see in John’s eyes that nothing short of an outright brawl would get him to relent. 

Sherlock grumbled, “A quarter.”

“Half.”

“A third.”

“Deal.” John grinned and immediately started on making Sherlock another cup of tea.


	13. The Verdict

Neither of them, especially not John, made any mention of the fact that Sherlock had polished off the entire sandwich between two more cups of John’s tea. John had to try especially hard to chew with his mouth shut as every bite Sherlock took past the agreed upon third had him struggling not to grin like a fool. John was right: the arrogant git that he was wouldn’t admit that he was hungry. Sherlock had wanted to finish the bloody index and forgo lunch as if it was more important-

“Holmes; Watson?”

John turned around toward the voice and was startled by the two, much older, students staring down at them. He set his tea down and swallowed, “Er, yeah, I’m John.” He darted a glance at his friend beside him, who was still facing the fresh cup of tea John had made him on the table. “And he’s Sherlock,” John was impressed with his steady voice; perhaps standing up to Greg had done more for his confidence than he thought.

The boy with a red and gold pin engraved with the words Head Boy nodded once, “If you’ll both follow us; the Headmistress has requested your presence in her office.”

John paled and looked at the silver and green Head Girl badge pinned to the expressionless blond beside the Head Boy and realized these must be the ‘Heads’ Greg had told him he would talk to about Sherlock staying in the Hufflepuff dorm. The whole situation appears to have made its way all the way to the very tip top of the school if the headmistress herself was now summoning them. John swallowed, this was it, he and Sherlock would be removed from Hogwarts. Expelled. And oh sure, Sherlock had a family, a home, a magical life to get back to if he was removed from here but him? What did he have? _Nothing._

A firm hand on his shoulder had John snapping his head around. Sherlock’s eyes were their eternal icy blue but John swore there were a few flecks of warmth seeping through as their eyes met, “Calm down, John. Breathe. Nothing bad is going to happen to you so just relax.”

John nodded and Sherlock turned around to face the two seventh years, but as they faced each other, neither the girl nor the boy would look Sherlock directly in the eye, and John’s heart plummeted. John might not be the one going anywhere, but Sherlock hadn’t said he wasn’t the one being sent away.

Sherlock stood gracefully and John clamored up beside him as both Heads turned to lead them out of the Great Hall. John forced his eyes forward, pointedly ignoring the gazes and turning heads from the others at lunch as they were led to their meeting with the Headmistress. To Sherlock’s fate.

John bit his lip at the realization that all the joy he had felt, upon seeing that Sherlock hadn’t been expelled last night, this morning was about to be snuffed out. John was, once again, going to be in this new world alone. There was only one person he had had any sort of meaningful interaction with, other than Sherlock, and he had pretty much told him to bugger off for the _sake_ of Sherlock. John glanced at his stoic friend beside him a moment, and it seemed like Sherlock had sensed his gaze because their eyes immediately collided and a relaxed smile played across his pale lips. Sherlock didn’t see the danger, didn’t have any qualms or worries about being sent away from him and John knew he had to come up with something before it was too late.

Because, obviously, Sherlock wasn’t going to do anything about it.

__

_**~~*~~** _

John’s loyalty was something Sherlock found himself helplessly enamored with even if his plan to keep Sherlock from being expelled was wholly unnecessary.

This would be the second time he’d been to the Headmistress’ office in less than twenty-four hours but, unlike the first, Sherlock wasn’t _quite_ sure how this one would turn out. 

The first time he knew he would get some sort of punishment but, ultimately, that would be it. He had hoped, along the way towards her office from the Great Hall, that he would be able to get something else out of it, and was surprised at how easily he got half of what he wanted for only the cost of a few hours of his time every day until the holidays. And they weren’t even John-less hours either, as his friend had needed barely much convincing to tag along. Really, what part of any of that arrangement could even be considered a punishment? Sherlock threatened the Sorting Hat, insulted Ravenclaw by choosing Hufflepuff, and screamed McGonagall’s shame for all to hear and he was rewarded with having John through every part of the day until curfew for the reduced cost of four months of detention. 

Sherlock let his gaze linger on John until his blonde friend turned away to stare at the backs of the head boy and girl leading them on. Sherlock fought back a sigh while watching John’s body tense up as he continued to try and formulate some sort of plea for Sherlock’s case. John’s loyalty was the most captivating thing Sherlock had ever seen in his life and, though he was loath to prevent John from displaying such loyalty to the world (for Sherlock knew _that_ would then become the most captivating thing he would ever see), he really didn’t want John to stress over something nothing he said would ultimately have made a difference if Sherlock’s plan took the worst possible possibility. But, then again, the only way that outcome would come would be because Father would have been upset _his_ son had wanted to go to Hufflepuff. 

But that’s why Sherlock was glad Slughorn was the Head of Slytherin; Slughorn’s selfish audacity would make sure that worst possibility was as low as it could possibly be. Sherlock steeled his smirk as the two heads stopped before a great marble statue of a feline regally staring down at them. 

“Wampus.”

At the firm voice of the Head Girl, the statue’s eyes closed and began to rotate upwards revealing a hidden spiraling staircase. The two Heads stepped back and watched them, mostly John, hard as they stepped into and rode the twisting stairs. Once the boy and girl were out of sight, John let out a shaky breath, “Listen, Sherlock, if I get-”

Sherlock glanced down at John as the stairs slowed to a stop, “You’ve nothing to worry about John, those two were only concerned with making sure I went where they were ordered to take me.”

John frowned up at him from the lower step, “What do you mean?” Sherlock smirked while taking the last few steps before a wooden door to shove it open without bothering to knock. John’s eyes widened and he threw himself forward as he reached his hand out in time to at least try and give the illusion that Sherlock was attempting to announce his presence by doing something more polite than just barging into the Headmistress’ office.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes; Mr. Watson. Please, have a seat.” John froze and blushed furiously as the Headmistress’s eyes settled on him while he had one hand bracing himself on the floor with the other hovering in a comical attempt at reaching the door to knock. John lowered his head and hand to push himself up but his arm was caught and he was hoisted up the last couple steps before settling upright beside Sherlock. 

“Careful, John, wouldn’t want you to have to go to the infirmary before classes have even begun,” Sherlock played up a look of concern and watched as John swallowed and nervously darted his eyes between himself and McGonagall obviously remembering the young Ravenclaw he had sent there just a few hours ago.

McGonagall stood up from her seat as her expression turned soft, “Are you alright, Mr. Watson?”

Sherlock briefly shifted his gaze at her beneath his lashes as he kept his body facing John, “He’s alright, Headmistress, merely a bit of vertigo after the staircase’s abrupt stop.” 

“Help him into a chair, then. Would you like some tea, Mr. Watson?”

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from grinning at McGonagall’s efforts to soothe. Her concern towards John confirmed what had been the only thing he had truly worried about when they _both_ had been summoned by the Head Boy and Girl. John had cast a spell and, though it was in defense of another, it resulted in a boy being sent to the infirmary. John receiving punishment for protecting him would have been inexcusable and, though it would have been tricky, Sherlock would have held nothing back in order to see to John’s innocence.

“N-o, Headmistress, thank you.” John caught Sherlock’s eye and let himself be led to the right chair before the intricate desk in the center of the room. 

Sherlock plopped into the left, relaxed but confident that at least John was safe and awaited the verdict of all the Heads of Houses on where they would put him.

McGonagall settled back into her chair, a plush and decadent thing that compared no different to anything else in the lavishly vaulted room. She looked over the rims of her spectacles at them both before settling onto Sherlock’s eyes and he grinned, _Occlumency_. He couldn’t read her, but that also meant she shouldn’t read him. She was putting every ounce of her efforts on defense instead of counter attacking him with her own attempts at Legilimency. Meaning the only other thing that might have ruined his plans, if Father hadn’t, was gone.

“First, I would like to apologize for the way you were treated following the Sorting Ceremony.” McGonagall continued, “Both for the destruction of your things and the way Mr. Holston, Mr. Bell and Mr. Carnit handled your return to Ravenclaw Tower this morning. We’ve traced all three of their wands but failed to find evidence that they were the ones to have performed the spells required to inflict the damage upon your possessions. Rest assured we are still looking into the incident as we take such obviously threatening actions very seriously.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly, “I appreciate the faculty’s efforts in finding the culprit.”

“The three boys express their apologies on their conduct this morning and have been reprimanded for their actions; however,” McGonagall’s eyes hardened, “I must warn you against using your Legilimency. The ones who would be able to resist your ability would not even fill this room and I cannot allow you to go about heedlessly harassing the students here.”

“ _What?_ ” John blurted in disbelief causing the other two to turn and stare at him. “Sherlock was the one being harassed! All he did was try to defend himself with words instead of using magic,” John glared hard at the old witch on the other side of the desk and Sherlock’s heart sputtered at John’s outburst, “or fists.”

McGonagall blinked a few times before furrowing her brows and shifting her gaze between both boys before settling on Sherlock again, “You haven’t told him?”

Sherlock didn’t need his Legilimency to know what she was talking about, but he also didn’t, quite, want John to know. _Yet_. He knew it wasn’t something he could get away with keeping from John forever, especially with the increased frequency of interaction between the other students once classes started, but he had hoped to have more time solidifying his and John’s… friendship into something truly unwaveringly unbreakable before telling John that he could read every thought and memory, hidden and secret, just by looking at him. He narrowed his eyes at her.

McGonagall sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose before readjusting her glasses to look at John, “Mr. Holmes is a natural-born Legilimen. Legilimency is a type of magic that involves delving into another’s mind in order to find information. It is normally an extremely difficult and dangerous spell for both the caster and the subject; however, Mr. Holmes is one of the unimaginably rare individuals who are born with the ability innate to their very being.”

Once McGonagall had broken eye contact with him, Sherlock’s gazed fixed onto John’s face, but John wasn’t looking him in the eye. John was too busy watching McGonagall act like she was going revealing a secret so devastating that it could _ruin_ them… him. And Sherlock tried to tell himself that it wouldn’t as he stopped breathing and tried to bore a hole through the side of John’s skull to get at his brain so he could _see_ what John wasn’t _saying_ right this very second because the idiot wouldn’t just turn and _look at him._

_That’s amazing._

Sherlock startled as he heard words in his mind that weren't his own. He was so stunned that he hadn’t noticed when John had finally looked at him with an expression Sherlock couldn’t attribute to wonder because how in the world _could_ John, honest and loyal John, think his ability be anything but _invasive._

“You can read minds?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly before running his tongue over his teeth and opening his mouth, “Mind reading is such an _inadequate_ way of describing what Legilimency does. However; without going into the specifics and taking up more time than I expect McGonagall was planning to spend to entertain us this afternoon: yes. So long as I have direct eye contact with another person, and they aren’t actively trying to shield their mind with countercharms, I can read their thoughts and mind as easily as if they were telling them to me with their own voice.”

John gaped at him and Sherlock had to avert his gaze, nearly vomiting, out of pure humiliating _nervousness_ because John was still looking at him as if he wasn’t a freak and he couldn’t understand why his Legilimency was _lying_ to him. It’s never failed him before, never betrayed him so cruelly.

“That’s amazing, Sherlock!”

Sherlock wasn’t aware he had slumped so far down into his chair until he jerked his head around to face John’s excited voice only to barely be able to meet his eyes due to the armrest cutting off half of John’s smile. Sherlock eased himself upright while keeping his eyes locked onto John’s. He was utterly mute.

“So you can read my mind?” 

Sherlock nodded.

_Like right now, you can hear what I’m thinking_ right _now?_

Sherlock swallowed and nodded again as their different shades of blue didn’t so much as blink.

John’s eyes danced as he laughed in a quick burst of air and leaned closer to Sherlock while barely keeping his butt to the chair, “No wonder you knew my name on the train, you wanker, you read my mind while I was trying to get you to talk to me.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop the twitch of his mouth, “The first thing you did was introduce yourself.”

John snorted, “I don’t remember that.” 

Sherlock found himself grinning despite the nervousness still heavy in his gut, “It was the first thing you said to me after you ignored me ignoring you.” 

John grinned, “Now _that_ I remember.” _Can you_ think _back to me? Do you have to teach me how to be a Legilimen? Can you teach me?_ Would _you teach me?_

Sherlock felt a shiver race up his spine as he felt John’s thoughts. John was practically begging him to read his mind, no one had ever offered up their thoughts so willingly before. Never so clearly and purposefully for his benefit and the sensation of someone communicating to him with their mind was irresistible. “No. I- I mean yes-” Sherlock scrunched his eyes a moment to force himself to _think_ before he spoke. He took a calming breath before resuming their eye contact, “Yes to everything but the first.”

John’s smile was blinding and Sherlock couldn’t look away. It was only once McGonagall spoke did their gaze break, “Legilimency is a dangerous spell, Mr. Watson, I highly advise against attempting-”

Sherlock bristled and rounded on McGonagall, “What would you know? Your opinion on Legilimency is so insignificant in comparison to my own that there is nothing more _irrelevant_ to John’s decision to learn-”

“And you, Mr. Holmes, are so blinded by your own unique selfishness that you do not even consider the ramifications of having a boy who has nearly no exposure or experience with handling such a demanding type of spell to do so!” McGonagall hissed at him, causing Sherlock’s mouth to clamp shut so abruptly he nearly thought it was his father in the room silencing him. “You were born with the ability and, even if the memories were years ago, you must still be aware of how much of a strain it was when you couldn’t control it. The backlash of the magic was innate and it kept you in a near constant state of receiving others’ thoughts and memories without a single hope of processing or shutting it off. I suspect your mother was the only one able to help pull you out of your stupor before things got worse and you learned to filter the information.” McGonagall sighed heavily in her seat, “If John truly is an important friend to you, why would you want him to suffer like that?”

Sherlock scowled at her, he didn’t think he’d ever looked at anyone with more indignation before in his life, because he knew, deep in the wriggling feeling below his diaphragm, that she was right. Though he wanted, desperately wanted, John to be able to be just like him, to communicate to him in a way no one other than his parents had begrudgingly done in the earliest days of his Legilimency, he knew John wouldn’t be able to withstand the strain on his mind without proper training. John would need strict conditioning through either specific magical lessons or just through the steady and slow exposure to many different types of magic over the rest of his years at Hogwarts.

Sherlock would _not_ wait years.

“Occlumency.” McGonagall narrowed her eyes at him, more bemused than irate, and Sherlock continued, “If I teach him Occlumency to the degree with which he is able to resist me,” Sherlock swallowed and tried to force his voice steady around the lump forming in his throat at the thought of John willingly blocking his mind from him, “then he should be more than capable of learning how to use Legilimency without the fear of a catatonic backlash.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose and managed to wrinkle her already aged face further as she mulled over his suggestion. She looked between them again, “I suppose whatever restrictions I place on you concerning such an act would be moot considering the main reason I called both of you here.” 

Sherlock and John shared a look and turned back in time to watch McGonagall brandish her wand at Sherlock. Before either of them could react with anything other than startled jerks, Sherlock felt the wave of magic just as he watched it shimmer out from the tip of her wand and collide against his black robe. He looked down at himself and, in less than two blinks, the previously bronze and blue emblem on his chest turned into a yellow and black as identical to the one on the blonde boy sitting next to him.

“Welcome, Mr. Holmes, to Hufflepuff.”


	14. Attention

“I do not know why you insist upon this _tour_ , John. I’ve already memorized the layout of the entire castle.”

John double checked the piece of paper just as they entered through what, he was hoping, was the third floor Charms corridor. “Yeah, sure, but I haven’t.” 

Sherlock frowned at him, “We have _identical_ schedules, John. We are in every class together; you are joining me at my detentions; we even share the same room in the dorm.” John finally looked up to meet his gaze, “At which point do you think you and I will be apart long enough for you to need to worry about getting lost?”

John blinked hard and came to a stop as he glanced between the parchment Greg handed him at breakfast and his increasingly agitated friend. Then he understood. “You just want to get back to finishing your index.”

Sherlock bristled, betrayed by the flush steadily creeping up his pale neck, “No, I am merely unable to comprehend why you wish to continue with this pointless exercise of self discovery when _I_ am right here.”

John smiled but shook his head, “We aren’t going to be tied to each other all the time. What about the weekends? What if I have to use the loo, Sherlock? You gonna follow in after me like a girl?”

Sherlock’s chin rose just as his brows lowered, “I fail to see the issue; we are both male and even if you were female it would hardly be considered any different. Annoying, surely, as I would have to wait outside for you if you weren’t alone, but not taxing.”

John groaned, “You _wouldn’t_ go into the girls’.”

“If you were in there? Of course I would.”

John shook his head and resumed his trek down to where the Charms classroom was; muttering under his breath. He heard Sherlock’s steps after a moment and was soon right beside him on his quest for the illusive room. They needed to travel the entire length of the hall, as it was at the end, and John slid a glance at his friend with a reassuring smile, “Look, after this, I promise we’ll go straight back to your index. This is the last class I needed to go to; it's the first one tomorrow so I wanted to be sure I could get to it from the dorm.”

Sherlock took in an exaggerated breath and nodded as he blew it out through his nose. “Fine.”

John grinned and stepped into the bright classroom. There were a few students huddled around the front of the room, obviously chatting with the professor, but John didn’t really want to speak to any of them. What would he say? He didn’t know anything except what Sherlock had taught him on the train here and that was hardly enough to hold a conversation with a wizard who was so knowledgeable he was dedicating his time to teaching the next generation of magically gifted children. 

John glanced around the room, taking note of the two tiered rows of desks along the entire length of both sides of the room. There was a massive chalkboard next to a podium and a full storey window that dominated the whole far wall behind it. The high ceiling and brightness was a far cry more welcoming than he expected from what he had seen of the other classes, and John silently hoped that he would enjoy the lessons as much as he enjoyed the room.

“Don’t worry John, remember what I told you?” Sherlock’s voice brought around John’s gaze, “Rowan wood is quite adept at Charmwork. You’ll be most proficient at _Defensive_ Charmwork, but regular Charms should come relatively easy to you all the same.”

“Well that’s good,” John nodded absently as he took one last look around the room. “Alright, we can-”

“Mr. Holmes!”

Both Sherlock and John turned toward the front of the room where the group of students had parted to reveal a tiny man with wildly frizzy white hair above a warm smile and a beckoning hand. “I was wondering if I would get to see you before tomorrow’s lesson. Come here a moment.”

John watched as Sherlock straightened his spine and slipped into that calm, detached expression John didn’t like to see on his friend and moved to follow as Sherlock strode to the mass of students. “Professor Flitwick.”

The very small man’s amazingly large eyebrows tilted down as he clasped his hands on top of his desk, “I would like you to know I take full responsibility for the way you were treated this morning in Ravenclaw Tower. As the Head of House such a thing should never have occurred if I had been more mindful of the situation in my house.”

Sherlock’s expression relaxed, “Yes well, thankfully, John was there with me when I returned to Ravenclaw Tower. He ensured I was unharmed.”

John would have gladly basked in Sherlock’s compliment for the rest of the day if they were alone, but, instead, they were in the middle of a classroom with a bunch of witches and wizards he didn’t know. John’s face flushed red; Sherlock had just made John out to be the accomplished spellcasting hero to Sherlock's damsel in distress.

“Yes, yes, I heard about that.” The professor’s gaze settled onto John and he nearly fainted under the pressure, “Well done. Mr. Watson wasn’t it?” John nodded, “Well done indeed. The Shield Charm, while not usually a difficult spell to cast, varies wildly in its effectiveness depending on the object or spell being deflected and by the strength of the wizard casting it. To block the physical blow from a human is quite impressive at your age.” Flitwick’s brown eyes glimmered like sun-backed amber, “And, to be able to _project_ the charm to protect your friend; most impressive indeed.”

“Thank you… sir.” John nodded his head slightly, not knowing what else to do in the face of such earnest praise from someone obviously more talented than himself. John snuck a peek at Sherlock, who was smirking at him in a way John couldn’t describe as anything other than _proud._

Sherlock threw an arm around John’s shoulders so naturally John found himself unable to believe it wasn’t meant to be there, “He has even insisted on repairing my belongings since the incident.”

Flitwick’s bushy white eyebrows shot up, “Really?” before those golden eyes shifted back to John’s blue. “Quite the exemplary Hufflepuff aren’t you, Mr. Watson?” The professor’s smile turned toward Sherlock, though with less brightness, “You best make sure to thank your friend properly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, of course, professor.” John had never seen a more charismatic smile on Sherlock’s face and was too stunned to speak or stop Sherlock’s none-to-subtle nudging out of the classroom and back into the hall. Sherlock immediately dropped his arm from John’s shoulders and began striding away, “Come along, John, there’s no time to waste. I need to get started on my pants and I haven’t even finished the socks.”

John stared after Sherlock’s retreating form and scrambled to catch up, managing to reach him just as Sherlock rounded the corner at the end of the hall. “Why’d you say all that stuff about me?”

Sherlock glanced at him without breaking stride, “Because it was true, John.”

“I mean, sure, but,” John pressed a bit closer and lowered his voice, “you could have handled it fine. You said it yourself: you were just testing me.”

“They don’t need to know that.”

John glanced nervously at the group of giggling girls that walked past, “I’m not some kind of… _hero_ , Sherlock. I saved you because you’re my friend, I don’t know if I could have done the same for someone else.”

Sherlock turned to face him, pinning John against the old stone walls of the corridor with only the intensity of his gaze, “I don’t care about _other_ people, John. You saved me; you're _my_ hero.” Sherlock brought his face closer to John’s, “You deserve to be appreciated.”

John shifted under the praise and swallowed, “You know I’ll always have your back, Sherlock. I just don’t feel comfortable telling people I’m something great when I’m really not.”

Sherlock grabbed John by both shoulders, “But you _are_ great John. You’re _better_ than anyone I’ve ever met and don’t think for a _moment_ that I don’t know what I am talking about. I can read people as easily as you would a book; thoughts they wish unread and secrets never found. I know a husband more than his wife, a child more than their mother, a lover more than her beloved. I know when someone gushes lies with great gulps of air and when one spills truth under their breath. In a world where the light of another can so easily be smothered by those who would seek to take advantage of that brilliance I will do everything I can to make others realize your significance and for you to accept it. Because when I am standing above those inferior to me you will be right there beside me not a step, or two or twenty, beneath me but right there _with_ me; _always_. We will never be _Sherlock Holmes_ and John Watson but Sherlock Holmes _and_ John Watson.”

John was stunned into silence, there weren’t words he could even think to say to Sherlock’s declaration. So John said nothing and that seemed to be enough because Sherlock’s seriousness turned to sudden delight and he squeezed John’s shoulders before letting go with a gleaming smile and a twirl of his robes as he continued on down the hall. 

“Hurry up, John. As you say: my index won’t index itself!”

__

_**~~*~~** _

John supposes he should feel a bit miffed at the fact that he's wasting the rest of his first day in the wizarding world, without the direct supervision of an adult, cooped up in his dorm room. But, when he thinks about it in between mending Sherlock’s trousers, he finds himself far too exhausted to bother with using the last remaining hours before supper out and about exploring more of the school. Been there, done that; direct him to the gift shop because John was done for the day and spending the rest of it in his room was more than good enough for him.

As the last pair of Sherlock’s trousers zipped themselves up and folded themselves onto his bed John sighed in relief at the finished task. He glanced at his friend, who was furiously rearranging the middle drawer of both of their pants and socks and who hadn’t even begun to put away the shirts John had finished an hour ago, before sliding a tired look at what remained in the expensive heavy leather trunk.

There were still the shredded remains of Sherlock’s textbooks inside and John had wanted to prioritize those first but Sherlock had informed him that if he didn’t have a basic knowledge of what strips of paper were for which books he would run the risk of mixing them with each other and render it all useless anyway. John rolled off the bed and crossed his legs to sit on the floor in front of the trunk to get a better view of what was inside. He peered and sifted past the things he couldn’t fix in search of things he could since Sherlock was obviously too focused on his index to bother assigning him something more to do. As he dug and shifted around the alarming amount of paper bits he came across a smaller box made of dark wood with a gleaming brass latch and brackets around the corners. It wasn’t locked, the little nub twisting freely between John’s thumb and finger, and it seemed to spring open at his touch with a speed that startled a noise from him.

“You can have that; I won’t have a use for it.”

John glanced up at Sherlock watching him before returning to stare at the beautiful raven feather quills that lined the top of the box. There were two rows of four square inkwells nestled on the bottom beside two mahogany rods and, as John lifted one, he saw a slip of parchment peeking through a slit on the underside. John tugged at it and an obscenely high quality parchment unraveled itself from the inside that seemed far too small with how much John was pulling out. Intrigued, John tried to twist the rod around itself in an effort to get it to go back inside the bar but the paper only fluttered around him and he somehow was making it worse. He looked to his friend for help only to find Sherlock smirking as the parchment pile grew in John’s lap. 

_Git._

“Actually, on second thought, leave one roll, one quill and a well; you can have the rest. Merlin knows why Father thought the need to provide me with two scrolls and five quills. It isn’t like I would actually end up using them for lessons in the first place.”

Sherlock left the dresser and came to sit beside him as John glared stormy sea daggers. He pressed one of the ends of the handles on the rod and twisted it until John heard a click. Sherlock pulled it back to reveal a short, but most definitely sharp, blade sheathed away inside the wood. John watched Sherlock’s face tighten as he locked at the short knife, “Wizards who can afford this are, generally, able to run their hand across the parchment to cut it at the length they want but I cannot cast that spell without my wand, which would be an awkward thing to do in practice, so Father had these specially made for me due to my ineptitude.” The blade in his hand flew across the length of the rod without any resistance by the thick parchment. Freed, from whatever tension hadn’t been felt when John had inadvertently unraveled, the ten feet of exposed paper snapped up into a tight roll in John’s lap.

John looked at the large roll of blank parchment before he looked at the much smaller, and lighter, wooden rod now in Sherlock’s hand and his brows couldn’t seem to get any closer together. “Hang on, how did all this fit in that?” John spotted more thick paper peeking out from the slit on the bottom, “And how is there still more in there?”

Sherlock scoffed while he picked up an inkwell and plucked a quill from the velvet box before rising, “There is an Extension Charm on both of these scrolls, John, and at least a kilometer of parchment in each; knowing my Father’s predisposition towards showing off.”

John gaped at him, “What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and carried all three items to the newly added desk on his side of their shared room, “You were barely given enough to last you until Christmas, John, so take that Extended Scroll for your assignments. There is a kilometer of parchment inside; it should be sufficient.”

John stared at him until Sherlock growled in frustration, “Just take it, John. I don’t want to hear you _say_ you can’t.”

“But, Sherlock-”

“Either you take the box, or I toss it into the common room hearth.”

John hung his head with a sigh, “Alright.” He heard his friend’s satisfied hum before he moved to resume working on the index that would make John too scared to even grab his own pants lest he face Sherlock’s wrath at it being _ruined._ John felt the not too light tug on his eyelids and he silently hoped Sherlock would remember to wake him up when he went to dinner. But if he didn’t, John yawned, there was always breakfast.


	15. A Rough Start

“Wake up, John.”

John groaned and turned away from the force on his shoulder, only to have himself yanked upright and something far too hot dropped onto his lap.

“Ouch, bloody hell, Sherlock, what’re you-” John blinked hard, bleary and disoriented, before he realized he was sitting up in bed (not the floor that he remembered passing out on) and there was both the stabbing light of the morning sun streaming directly into his eye and a familiar piercing gaze right in his face. “Wait, what happened? Wasn’t I on the-”

“Floor? Yes. I was going to let you sit there but then you fell over and started rolling under your bed. While it was tempting to let you wake like that I realized you would have been far angrier with me had I left you there.” Sherlock straightened, “Eat; we have class in thirty.” 

_“What?”_

Sherlock sighed, “How many times must I-” Sherlock didn’t get to finish as John was suddenly up and shoving past him to get to the dresser. Ruffled, Sherlock huffed, “There’s no need to be _rude._ ”

John rounded on him while struggling out of the clothes he had been left to sleep in, “Rude? _Rude!_ Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Sherlock glared at him, “ _I_ woke you up.”

“Shut up!” John barked at him while stumbling into a pair of trousers he had yanked from the drawer, “Just, shut up.” John slammed drawers in between retrieving enough articles of clothing so he could be considered decent. John looked sharply at Sherlock’s strangled noise of protest as he stuck a blind hand into their shared sock drawer, “I said shut it.”

“Surely you can be more-”

”I swear to _God_ , Sherlock: if I’m late to the first class of my first day-”

“We won’t-”

“I haven’t even taken a piss yet, Sherlock! Haven’t brushed my teeth,” John jabbed a finger at the top of his head before pulling on matching socks. “My hair is, no doubt, defying gravity.” John dropped to the floor to tie the shoes he had jammed onto his feet, “I don’t have any of my things ready. My books are still somewhere in my case. My-”

Sherlock was on his knees, “Breathe, John. Come on, deep breaths.”

John jerked his head up, finally registering his rapid short breaths and lightheadedness as his blood pressure skyrocketed from the stress. “This isn’t how it was supposed to _go_ ,” John bit off each word with a deliberate breath as he forced himself to glare at his shoes instead of his friend. “This is the first day of the rest of my _life_ , Sherlock. It was supposed to be better than this; _has_ to be-” John jerked his hand too hard and let slip the end of one of the loops in his laces. John made a noise in the back of his throat, something between a whine and a growl, and made a mess out of the rest of the knot trying to force it undone.

Sherlock swatted John’s hands away and deftly untied and tied John’s shoes. He grabbed John’s hand and pulled him up just as he took out his wand; Sherlock pointed it at John’s shoes, “Hold still.” He flicked his wand in a line John could only see as a spiral pointed at his worn shoes leading into a straight line up to his blonde hair, _“Mundicorpus.”_

A gust of wind started from beneath John’s feet and twisted around his body on its way upward. It was far more forceful than he was anticipating and he was amazed that he hadn’t been swept up into the ceiling. There was an odd sensation now climbing up his skin from his trouser legs and John wasn’t sure it was a pleasant one: it was unsettlingly similar to that odd not-quite-tickling feeling when he brushed his gums in the morning. When the abrasive line of wind slipped from his waistband and reached his ribs John couldn’t suppress a ticklish cringe.

“I said: don’t move. It might miss a spot.”

John opened an eye, the wind making it impossible to do more than squint at his friend and even with barely any exposure his eye began to water from the onslaught. John gave up, not being able to make out much more than a wavy mix of pale skin and dark hair through his eye’s protective tears and settled on forcing himself to keep still.

“Close your eyes. Bare your teeth, keep them slightly apart, and don’t breathe until the magic has passed your nose.”

John felt the ‘line’ graze up his throat and grinned wider than he thought possible in his continued effort to keep from moving while being mercilessly tickled. It slipped into his mouth and John nearly choked as it ran over the back of his throat but he forced, _forced_ , himself not to and then, as quickly as it had went over every millimeter of his mouth, it was at his nose and eyes before he felt a rough pull from every hair on his head.

And then it stopped.

The pulling, the scraping, the wind, all of it ended faster than it had started and John stood there, frozen, too afraid to move or to even start breathing again, until Sherlock spoke.

“Should I be worried you seem to have a habit of forgetting when and how to breathe properly?”

John sucked in a breath and opened his eyes, suspiciously scanning the room before looking fully at Sherlock, “What-”

“Grooming spell,” Sherlock huffed as his wand slipped back up into his sleeve. “For the body only,” Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat as John’s expression turned to worship, “not clothing.”

John quickly forced his face back into one of anger, “I’m still upset about missing breakfast, Sherlock.”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, “You really shouldn’t be, for multiple reasons, least of which because I brought you some.”

John turned to face his desk, the only place he could logically think of to have breakfast waiting for him but was met with an absolutely breathtaking black leather briefcase instead. John blinked at it, “Um, Sherlock, why is your bag on my desk?”

“So you remember to take it when we leave.”

John snorted, “I’m not carrying your bloody books to class, Sherlock, I’ve got my own-”

“They are already in there; all nine of them.”

“Nine?” John whirled back to Sherlock, “How did-” Then John saw it, an upturned plate of food spilled all over his unmade bed. John pushed Sherlock out of the way to get a better look at what he hoped he wasn’t seeing. Fluffy eggs, Butter-side down toast, crispy fatty bacon…

John didn’t see Sherlock do it, but he sure as bloody hell _heard_ those icy eyes roll in their sockets, “Extension Charm, John, remember? Now, hurry up and eat so we can get to class.”

__

_**~~*~~** _

Sherlock didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand _John_. Didn't understand how John could be so… _ungrateful_ for everything he’d done for him this morning.

He had let John sleep in after he knew the blonde would be absolutely exhausted from casting dozens of moderately demanding spells for hours on end. Sherlock had even moved John from the floor and tucked him into bed so he wouldn’t be sore in the morning, and what had he received for his compassion? A John who wouldn’t stop complaining about being woken up thirty minutes before class. Sherlock heard John’s hurried steps; the clumsy and awkward fumblings of a boy trying to keep up while learning how to move with an adult-sized briefcase at his side.

And that was another thing.

John had no idea, no _concept_ , of the value of that briefcase. His exposure to luxury was lacking in only the way someone utterly poor and Muggle-born could be and he _hated_ how John was so apprehensive towards Sherlock’s offerings of convenience. A Niffler-Pouch Briefcase? Affrontement. A set of five Absorption Quills? ‘I’ve never written with a feather before Sherlock, I can’t use these, what if I break one?’ A set of eight No-Smear Dry-Yesterday Inkwells? ‘Neat.’ The only thing John had shown any interest in had been the Extended Scrolls; the item his Father had to request be modified to make up for Sherlock’s inability to wandlessly cast a spell. The one thing that highlighted Sherlock’s inadequacy.

“Wait for me, you wanker.”

Had that evidence of Sherlock’s deficiency made John feel more comfortable with his own shortcomings? Did John like him more now that Sherlock wasn’t some all-powerful wizard and had fallen closer to the level of the Muggles he knew from before? Was it worth the loss of John’s reverence by accepting that he was now considered lesser? What reason would John have for staying with him if he thought Sherlock wasn’t good enough?

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock stopped and turned. He was only a few meters from the Charms classroom but John’s encumbered gait had him several paces behind. Other Hufflepuffs walked by as he watched John waddle closer but if you asked Sherlock who they were he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Sherlock looked into John’s blue eyes, diving past their stormy exasperation to reach that open mind beneath, 

_You posh git do you not see me struggling to keep up with you? I just went up three flights of stairs and ran the length of half a sodding castle. You give me this posh bag and expect me to know how to run with it when I could hardly get through the door? Didn’t even give me ten seconds to finish the only upright toast before you magicked it all away. You’re really gonna have to teach me that one. Where were you every time Mum came by and told me to pick up my room?_

and knew none of that mattered because he would never stop _trying_ to be good enough.

__

_**~~*~~** _

Sherlock _hated_ this classroom, but he hadn’t said anything because John loved it. And of course he would, why wouldn't he? Bright, open and full of warmth just like John himself. It was so much _like_ John Sherlock should have loved it too but he just couldn’t because the seating arrangement had him, a Legilimen, facing people. Sherlock stifled a groan by dropping his head onto his desk.

“I do hope I’m not boring you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Unfortunate for you, then,” Sherlock’s words were muffled by the fortified walls of his arms but the quick jab into his ribs from the boy next to him had him razing them to glare full force at his assailant. John’s eyes were the tormented look of one who is both furiously squinting while also forcing their eyes as wide as they’d go. Sherlock grimaced and slid both of his arms off the desk and lay the side of his head directly onto the desk to look at the half-goblin at the front of the class, “Continue.”

“Perhaps if you used both ears you may find yourself more engaged in the lesson.”

Sherlock shifted his gaze at the blackboard behind Flitwick. Levitation Charm. Boring. Wand Light Charms? Boring again. Fire-making spell? Everyone in the Great Hall had seen him nearly cast it on the Sorting Hat. Mending Charm? Sherlock was the one who taught John how to do that one. Sherlock turned his eyes back to the professor, “Oh, I doubt that.”

No sooner had his teeth came together at the end of the last word had he been forcibly pulled upright and his robe stuck against the back of the chair. Sherlock wasn’t even shocked at the stern look from the professor, only enraged. “You may have detention for the rest of the semester, boy, but don’t think I can’t make whatever hours you have under my eye far more difficult than they need be.”

Even after Flitwick’s hand dropped and the magic restraining him dissipated, the return of his freedom only prompted Sherlock to slam both hands on the desk to push himself up from his seat. “I will not be forced to look into their vapid eyes and be subjected to their loud, incessant thoughts.” He turned and snarled at the Gryffindor boy sitting directly across him, “I cannot believe you are so stupid as to not realize your parents will be divorcing each other before Christmas. Did the sudden splurge of two brand new, identical, broomsticks before you’ve even had your first flying lesson not tip you off that, perhaps, your mother and father were trying to bribe you into choosing between them?” 

The brown haired, freckled boy looked near the edge of tears but Sherlock wasn’t done, he turned his attention to the girl on the boy’s right, who abruptly lost all colour in her face, “And you. You’re delusional if you think, just because you and Colin were placed into the same house, he will finally develop feelings for you. He’s too busy trying to find a way to get the attention of one of the boys he shares a room with to ever bother-”

“Sherlock!” He felt a rough pull on his robe, and it caught him off guard in its strength so much so that he fell backwards into his chair and was suddenly facing a very angry set of dark blue eyes; John’s eyes. “Sit down and. _Shut. Up._ ”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest,

_Please._

and quickly shut up.

__

_**~~*~~** _

John thinks he should be happy, proud even, at the fact that he was able to get Sherlock to sit down and be quiet for the remainder of the lesson when the Charms professor couldn’t, but then John thought about how Sherlock must’ve felt and couldn’t help but feel guilty.

He really should have known something was going to happen during that class even from yesterday when Sherlock had followed him around the school trying to find all the classrooms on his (their) schedule. The Charms classroom had been the only one where Sherlock had shown any hesitation towards and that had to be because he’d _already been there_. He must have seen the room when he had memorized the castle and had known the way the room was designed. Sherlock had known the students were positioned facing each other instead of forward.

After Sherlock explained, yelled really, John remembered what McGonagall had said during their meeting. About how much Sherlock had suffered when he was younger and couldn’t control it. About how dangerous it would be for him, John, to even start trying to learn how to do it when he was, also, so young and so new to magic.

And Sherlock had been _forced_ to learn to live with it since he was a child. John realized now that Sherlock must not be able to turn it off, even if he wanted to. Which would explain his aversion to mealtime and their exploration of the castle and, Christ, he was a bloody twit wasn’t he? John had been dragging around a kid who couldn’t stop X-raying people’s minds when he looked at them any better than Cyclops could stop shooting lasers out of his. 

John glanced at his friend just in time for their eyes to meet and John thought as loud as he could over their shared gaze. _I’ll do better, Sherlock. I’ll prove to you I’m good enough to be your friend._

Sherlock broke their connection first, leaving John with nothing more to do than turn back and face their professor, but not before John caught the bit of pink creeping up Sherlock’s pale neck.


	16. Mondays

As disgusted with himself as he was, John’s pity was what truly made Sherlock’s stomach roll. Even if he was going to get all of the perfectly brewed John Tea he could drink; Sherlock didn’t want the pity that accompanied it.

That shouldn’t have happened; that outburst should _not_ have occurred. If there was to _be_ an outburst, of which Sherlock was most certain there would have been simply because of how boring Charms was going to be for him, it should have been in a flattering way. It should have been in a way that allowed for Sherlock to impress John with his mastery of every spell Professor Flitwick was going to waste his time trying to teach. He should have picked up the blackboard behind Flitwick, flung it across the room and mended it better than new just before setting it on fire and locking the classroom door just because he could.

Instead, he had succumbed to the distracted minds of children and got swept up in each of their pathetic lives. He hadn’t had that kind of reaction to people in _years_ , then again, he hadn’t been put in a position of constant exposure to so many eyes and minds in that long either. The only reason he had managed so far was, honestly, because of John. Sherlock both did and didn’t hate that fact and, for an utterly baffling reason, he didn’t want that fact to change.

It turned out Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he told John he was his light. John had _become_ that shining beacon of stability and guidance Sherlock hadn’t known he had been so lost without. Sherlock didn’t want to think about how much worse this place would have been had John not been so wholly _John_ and barged into his train compartment and demanded they become friends.

When he had gone into the Great Hall, to grab breakfast for John, his sense of self-control had been proven ludicrously insufficient and had come crashing down around him. The noise from their mouths was one thing, a thing that could be silenced, but their minds and thoughts were ceaseless. Never-ending. _Relentless_. And how could they resist _looking_ at him: The Ravenclaw turned, demoted (in several of their opinions), Hufflepuff? 

When he had taken that first step over the threshold and experienced the abrupt hush that settled over those nearest the door, before spreading to the rest of the room, Sherlock felt he was going to vomit right there in front of everyone because suddenly everyone was thinking at once at him and _he_ couldn’t think or breathe or _exist_.

And as he stumbled his way back down into the lower levels of the school, in order to get back to John, that’s when he saw it. One of the elves Loti had told him was here at Hogwarts when she had responded to his summons and, oh, how Sherlock loved elves; their unbreakable loyalty, their unquestioning obedience…

Their immunity to Legilimency.

Sherlock had quickly asked the quiet elf for some food. ‘Only for John you see because he isn’t feeling well and is having trouble getting out of bed and he really does need something in his stomach otherwise how will he get better?’ And the elf had pondered for a very tense moment of rare uncertainty for Sherlock before nodding and bringing him something he could give to his friend. Sherlock thanked the elf, taking note of how to get into the kitchens for next time, before hurrying back to his John.

“How’s this spot, Sherlock?”

Sherlock came back to the present at John’s voice, quickly noting they had arrived at the Herbology classroom and that John had led them to the two person desk, sitting dead center, in the front row. He turned to meet expectant eyes and read the pleas of uncertainty, “It’s lovely, John. Truly.”

__

_**~~*~~** _

Sherlock may have laid his appreciation on a little thick there in Herbology but John didn't mind that Sherlock hadn’t done more to acknowledge John’s choice in Transfiguration than a slight nod of approval because Transfiguration didn’t allow him the opportunity to dwell on it like Herbology’s slogging syllabus.

“On page thirteen, there are two charts vital to the art of Transfiguration. Use the rest of the class to translate the board beside me and work towards having both memorized for class on Thursday.”

John blinked at the batch of symbols beside Professor Wyrwin and a cold weight settled in his gut. What on earth was he even looking at? Circles with lines and dots inside and out. Rectangles too. Some of the shapes weren’t even complete, they were either missing corners or even whole sides so that it was all a disjointed mess that meant nothing to him. It was like looking at something from another world. Which, when John thought about it, was true.

John sighed as he lifted Sherlock’s bag onto his desk and tried to remember how Sherlock had explained to him how to ‘summon’ what he wanted out of it. Unlatching the buckle and flipping over the thick leather flap to reveal an empty void inside was still as unsettling as it had been in Charms and Herbology. He had been relieved he hadn’t needed to retrieve anything from it yet, because Sherlock said he would need to stick his hand in it to do so, but now he needed to grab the book, the scroll, a quill and an inkwell from the void bag which meant he needed to stick his hand in it _four_ times.

John swallowed, held his breath, and jammed his fist into the bag. He quickly turned away, his stomach threatening to evacuate into the same void his hand disappeared into because it _had_ disappeared. Right before his very eyes. His arm, right up to the elbow, was gone in an inky nothingness that John really should have expected because he remembered (vividly now) how each syllabi had been eaten up as he let them fall inside. He had been very careful not to let his fingers slip beneath that rim of shiny leather at the time and now he wished he had only so he wouldn’t be so completely disoriented by the warmth.

God, why is it _warm?_

“Preservation Charm.”

John, startled by Sherlock’s answer to a question he hadn’t known he stated out loud, turned to look at his friend beside him, “Preservation Charm?”

Sherlock continued to lean back in his chair, seemingly with no urgency to get John to hurry and pull out his own writing utensils to begin working on their translation assignment. “It’s standard-”

“Quiet.” Professor Wyrwin interrupted from her desk, “There will be no collaboration between students on the translation. You will, eventually, need to have the alphabet memorized in its-”

“Year-One Transfiguration Coursework and Expectations.” Sherlock spoke over her, “You will use _The Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ as the primary resource for assignments in and outside of class. Chapters 1-15 will cover the full load of fundamental theories and beginner level Transfiguration spells that will be expected to be understood and mastered before the end of year exam.” Sherlock sneered, “Shall I continue?”

John stared at his friend, then the gibberish on the board before finally landing at the shockingly stoic face of Professor Wyrwin as she stared, without blinking, at Sherlock.

“Ten Points to Hufflepuff for demonstrating a perfect understanding of the Transfiguration Alphabet.” She wrote onto a slip of paper on her desk before turning back to face Sherlock, “Now, get out of my classroom.”

Someone snorted behind them but John was too busy watching Sherlock’s arrogance shift into anger as he shot up out of his seat. John was already reaching out with Sherlock’s name on his tongue when the professor spoke again.

“You will either walk out of this classroom, Mr. Holmes, or I will _place_ you out there.”

Sherlock stilled, an unnaturally forced reaction as his face hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of his body, and he darted his eyes down to meet John’s before looking back at her, “You-”

A smirk no less potent than anything John had seen on Sherlock graced Professor Wyrwin’s pink lips, “I believe an elder wood chair would-”

“Fine!” Sherlock’s voice went dangerously high as he nearly screamed at her. Sherlock spun on his heel and stomped the rest of the way out of the room. John, hell the whole class, followed his every footfall and when Sherlock made a deliberate effort to slam the door behind him everyone but John burst into laughter because, in a magical display of defiance, the door made not one sound.

John stared at the empty seat beside him.

“Get back to work, Mr. Watson.”

John turned his head around, meeting the professor’s warm green eyes, and, even though he knew it was most probably going to be a bad idea, scowled at her.

__

_**~~*~~** _

Oh, yes, it _had_ been an incredibly bad idea to do such a face at his Head of House. John rubbed his eyes and winced at the pain in his left hand. He really wished he had spent some time last night practicing how to use a quill before having to write what felt like a book. John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he shoved open the door, “Alright, Sher… lock.”

John blinked at the space next to the classroom door and the courtyard similarly devoid of his friend. A quick flare of anger and hurt began to spread throughout John’s body, the tosser didn’t even have the courtesy to wait for-, before he caught himself. 

_Detention._

John rubbed a hand over his face, “Christ, I haven’t a clue which professor he was supposed to go to this week.” John turned back toward the classroom and opened his mouth before he stopped himself. Would Wyrwin know? She’s the head of their house, if not McGonagall it _should_ be her. “Professor-” Wait, would she even tell him if she knew? They hadn’t admitted to any of the teachers that he would be tagging along with Sherlock to detention; both of them agreed it would be more beneficial if John proved he wasn’t a threat to Sherlock’s punishment and sat in the room, behaving quietly, while Sherlock suffered. Asking which professor Sherlock was under this week would ruin their entire plan of-

“Mr. Holmes was assigned to assist Professor Binns this week.”

John blinked, and refocused on his Head of House while playing back her words. Blushing bright red, John gripped the classroom door harder as he leaned forward in an awkward bow, “Thank you, professor. Wyrwin. Ma’am.”

She had the same warm green eyes as before and only smiled, “Best hurry, Mr.Watson, I do believe your friend may be in dire need of your presence.”

__

_**~~*~~** _

When John opened the door to the History of Magic classroom, and spotted his friend, he had to stifle a chuckle.

Sherlock looked like John’s dad whenever he lost too much money at the pub. His face was a contorted mess of wrinkles and creases between the crushing force of both his hands over his ears. It might have been heartbreaking, in a way, if Sherlock hadn’t been leaning backward in his chair enough to have his head cranked upside down, with his black curls crushed under his skull, as it rested on the desk behind him.

He let the door fall shut behind him, Sherlock’s eyes shot open, and John bit his tongue to try and combat the sudden dryness in his mouth. In a motion that was far too graceful for someone of Sherlock’s age to be able to pull off, he let the chair fall back onto all four legs just as he pushed off the seat and strode toward him. Sherlock gripped John’s wrist and pulled him along to join him at the same desk as before. Sherlock’s bag plopped into John’s lap, far too naturally, as he fell into the seat next to Sherlock. 

“Distract me.”

John looked between him and the ghost professor, “What? I thought I wasn’t supposed to-”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock leaned in closer towards John’s face, the intensity of his eyes forcing John to bite harder.

John leaned backward, clutching the briefcase closer to himself, “Why-”

Sherlock used his entire arm to point at the front of the classroom, John followed it and finally registered the droning monotony of Professor Binns’ voice. “He won’t stop.” John turned back to Sherlock when he heard the strained whine of that last word. “The first thing he asked me was some stupid question about the Blizzard of Soap and then it was about The Gargoyal Strike and then it escalated through several wars before finally launching into regaling about something I hadn’t bothered to memorize because it wasn’t suppose to be taught until after our O.W.L.s.” Sherlock’s words were stumbling out of his mouth in such a rush John was having trouble keeping up, “I can’t tune him out because I don’t know any of the information and I cannot delete it because he won’t shut up long enough to let me find it to cut it out and he won’t stop even to take a breath because he’s a ghost and that also means I can’t force him to shut up because he hasn’t a brain and I’m going to go _mad_ , John.”

John couldn’t help himself and, even in the face of Sherlock’s glower, he laughed.

Sherlock snarled, “This isn’t funny John!”

John laughed harder, “Yes it is.” He opened the briefcase on his lap to pull out his Transfiguration textbook, “Maybe if you _actually_ knew everything he wouldn’t have a reason to try and teach you.” John heaved the book onto the desk they shared before carefully laying the case on the floor, the thing was definitely more expensive than his dad's car. He turned back to look at his friend only to return to his textbook with a small smile at finding Sherlock’s full attention on the droning ghost professor in front of them.


	17. Conflict

It had taken considerable effort for John to convince Sherlock to join him for breakfast the next day. Far too much effort. John should not have been required to suffer a headache the size of his skull before he finally thought of a reason that even Sherlock couldn’t have argued against. Though that didn’t stop John from walking with a smug spring in his step as they both headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. John had even managed to get Sherlock to eat more than a piece of toast.

All of that confidence evaporated, however; once John stepped foot into their first class.

“Ah, if it isn’t John Watson. Please, have a seat up front; plenty of room for you and your Legilimen friend.”

John’s steps faltered a bit but he caught himself, before it became glaringly obvious he had forgotten which foot came next, as he looked up to meet the man with the sneering American accent. “Who-”

“Don’t be dim, John, obviously that’s our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Sherlock interrupted him while pointedly moving between their heated gazes, “Professor Holston.” Sherlock did something with his face that John couldn’t see, but he saw the utter contempt that flashed across the American’s face when he did it. “He’s also the father of the boy you sent to the infirmary on Sunday.”

_That_ got John’s attention.

Professor Holston’s eyes narrowed as he tracked their movement to their assigned seats, “Yes, Ford’s actions were quite a disappointment.”

John very pointedly made an effort not to look at his professor while he sat down.

“Oh, don’t worry, John. He doesn’t really care what happened to his step-son; he never did care much for the boy. Doubly so now that he’s found out how much his wife’s son _loves_ his darling daughter.” John heard the tone in Sherlock’s voice and his throat suddenly felt too tight. “No, Professor Holston is far more annoyed with you _because_ you sent the boy to the infirmary. Quite the chink in that American pride, wouldn’t you say, Professor? Someone from a pure-blood family losing to a Muggle-born without even a single class under his belt.”

“The disgusting little shit isn’t even my-” Holston clamped his mouth shut; his face, pinkening from rage, was quickly receding back toward that light American tan. He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his hair to corral the errant stray that had fluttered free after his outburst. “Now that everyone has taken their seats, let me welcome you to Defense Against the Dark Arts. I am Professor Holston and I will be introducing many of you to a part of the world that, until recently, you knew only as myth and legends both terrible and wondrous…”

Throughout the rest of the class John fought to stay upright in his chair while vehemently wishing the floor would swallow him because there wasn’t a single shared look between him and Holston that didn’t tell John that he was doomed.

__

_**~~*~~** _

“Why’d you go and do that, Sherlock?” John growled under his breath as he stomped beside his friend, “Why’d you have to rile the father of the kid who’s hand I broke? Protecting _you_ might I remind.” Sherlock wasn’t meeting his eyes and John grabbed his arm, “The bloke was staring at me the whole class! He’s American, they’re mental, what if he wants to kill me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t make an effort to free himself from John’s hold, “Oh, please, John, use your head will you? He won’t dare do anything to you now that I’ve made his true feelings on the matter between you and his step-son, quite publicly, known.”

John furrowed his brows enough to crinkle his whole forehead. “ _You_ were the one who said everything. How can you be so sure everyone will believe what you said over him if he decides to-”

“Because the fool _reacted_ , John.” Sherlock huffed, “It’s one of the benefits of being the only Legilimen in a room. No one can contest your words because it is implied that whatever unpleasant thing I say about someone else’s feelings on a subject is true as, inherently, everyone knows people will lie to protect themselves. It is even more effective when the audience is only made up of children.”

John was lost in thought a moment, “Was all that stuff true?”

Sherlock shrugged, the tug on John’s hold reminding him of it and he quickly released him, “I deduced Holston based on what information I gleaned from the boy during our confrontation in Ravenclaw Tower,” Sherlock spared a glance so brief John barely caught it, “and his hostility towards you. I could not pull directly from his mind, as he was using a fairly strong Occlumency Charm while we were in class, but I would expect nothing less from the school’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.” Sherlock grinned with wicked glee, “The good news is Holston underestimates my intelligence. He believes I rely too heavily on my Legilimency to be a real threat and, thus, believes that bit of filth I laid out in front of everyone was because his Occlumency Charm wasn’t strong enough to keep me out without him knowing I had been inside his mind. That _terrified_ him and had him lashing out at me just before he caught himself.” Sherlock tilted his chin up, smirking, “I suspect he’ll have to keep his Charm at full power from now on, just to be safe, which can be quite an exhausting spell to maintain at all times. I only ever get one chance to catch someone off guard with my Legilimency, before they double down on defending against me, and _that_ particular display of lost control was easily worth it.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John said, ashamed.

“It’s quite alright, John.” Sherlock rolled his shoulders and dusted at the place John’s hand held onto him. “No harm done. You’re concerned about retaliation and that _will_ still come. However; it won't be by his hand directly and that’s good. It’s what we want. We can handle any student they send after us; it’s only the teachers we should be wary of.”

Startled, John stared at him, “Why are you expecting something like that to happen?”

Sherlock finally let their eyes meet, “Because I am _me_ , John. They want me and what I can offer them but they don’t yet know what it will take for them to get me so they are testing my reactions; seeing what I hold value to.”

John gaped, “All this because you can read minds?”

Sherlock scoffed, “While innate Legilimency is quite the attractive trait, no. My family is powerful, and, by association, I am as well.” Sherlock took a step closer to him, lowering his voice, “There are those inside, and out, of the Ministry of Magic who _would_ kill for the chance to become what you are to me.”

John swallowed, “And what’s that?”

Sherlock grinned, “My only friend.”

__

_**~~*~~** _

John was getting anxious and, admittingly, it was wholly Sherlock’s fault. John may have picked Sherlock’s train compartment, may have said the first word, may have the most beautifully honest mind Sherlock had ever experienced, but it was Sherlock who had decided to forgo all of Father’s warnings in order to reciprocate John’s intentions and allow their friendship to grow.

And, oh, how it had _bloomed._

He shouldn’t have told John about that, about all of the dirty desires that plague wizards as much as, if not more than, any Muggle. Power was tempting, corrupting, consuming… And many people felt that Father had more than enough to share.

And they were stupid enough to think that Father was going to share it with _him._

Sherlock leaned heavily onto the hand propping his head up as he watched John try to cast the Levitation Charm Flitwick had tasked them with today. It was only a feather and, as much as it frustrated Sherlock to watch John struggle with the wandline and incantation, he kept his mouth shut and his advice to himself. John had made it _quite_ clear that he had wanted to do it on his own this time.

_“I can’t rely on you for everything, Sherlock. Not when there are people after both of us now.”_

_“But, John, that’s_ precisely _why you should. I can help you become-”_

_“Nope. Now quiet, I’m trying to concentrate.”_

Sherlock sighed in the most dramatic way he could think of at the recollection and relished the scathing look John shot him as he was disturbed from his latest attempt at the spell. “Relax, John, your wrist is too stiff. The flick you’ll need at the end will never be fluid enough if you keep your whole body that tense.”

John glared at the feather and didn’t show any other acknowledgement toward Sherlock’s advice.

John’s feather was the only one to reach the ceiling that day.

__

_**~~*~~** _

John tried, he really did, but Sherlock refused to join him in the Great Hall for lunch after Charms. Alright, that’s fine, let the berk starve. John grumbled as he plopped down at the Hufflepuff dining table. Sherlock may not have an appetite for school food, but John’s very _not_ posh stomach wasn’t going to say one bad thing about the food here.

“Where’s your master at, pup?”

John blinked, mid bite into a lovingly made turkey swiss, to turn and come face to face with a Slytherin boy he didn’t recognize and a Gryffindor girl he did. He took a page out of Sherlock’s book and rolled his eyes at them before turning back to his lunch. To John’s dismay, they sat down on either side, trapping him between them. He was really going to have to work on that. How did Sherlock manage to scare away everyone within a five meter-

“Is he gonna have you bring him his food like a good little pup?” 

John looked at the girl sitting to his left but, before he could respond, the slytherin on his right spoke next, “You know you aren’t allowed to bring food outta the Great Hall. Could get detention for that one.”

But Sherlock had- John shook his head and glared at the greasy haired boy, “Joke’s on you then, I already go to detention.” John tried not to make it obvious how much he enjoyed that smug look disappear off the boy’s face.

The boy scowled disbelief, “You don’t have detention; we’ve asked around and-”

“Of course he doesn’t have it himself. The little mutt,” the girl was talking again; Abby, if John remembered it right, “is only following after his master’s heels like a good boy too afraid to be left alone longer than it takes him to piss.”

“I’ve seen Holmes wait outside the lavatory-”

“What _is_ your problem?” Exasperated, John looked at the curly haired girl, “What has Sherlock-”

“Typical guard dog. Can’t see anything in the world except for his master; not even himself.” The girl sneered, “This isn’t about the Freak, this is about you. You think you’re so good, such an _amazing_ Muggle-born, being able to cast all those spells. Getting praise and points from professors simply because you’ve got a pure-blood whispering in your ear and giving you a leg up over the rest of us.”

John stared at her, grounding his teeth together hard enough to cause his jaw muscles to jump, “Look, I don’t-’

“So how’d you do it, hm?” The Slytherin was talking again and John resisted the urge to shift his gaze away from the dark skinned girl to stare at the boy’s with a white-knuckled fist, “What could Holmes see in a blonde mutt like you?”

John’s voice was dangerously low as he continued glaring at the girl, “I am _not_ a dog.”

“You might as well be. Considering you hadn’t so much as made that feather twitch ‘till your master told you to.” Abby leaned closer to him and John kept his back ramrod straight, “See, there’s nothing wrong with you being a Muggle-born. Plenty of them here at Hogwarts. Even you being a ward of the Ministry isn’t anything to write home about.” John narrowed his eyes at her, his thundering pulse wasn’t enough to hide the snickering from the Slytherin to his right, “But don’t think the fact that you decided to sell yourself to a pure-blood for some fancy bags and extra help with magic will make you one of us.” John’s blood turned cold, “Everything that you are here is only because you tied yourself to Holmes. You can't do anything on your own. You don’t deserve to be here like the rest of us. You aren’t worthy of being a wizard.”

The slamming of John’s fists on the table quieted the whole Hall. He wanted to hit her. He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted anything more in the world than to launch himself at her and just beat. Her. _Bloody._

He wanted to puke.

He grabbed his bag, abandoned his lunch and shoved his way through the other students that were still trickling in late from the passing period. He needed to see his friend. He needed to see Sherlock. He needed to make sure _that’s_ what they were: just friends. 

John didn’t remember how he got there, only that the red hadn’t quite left his vision by the time he was staring at the only door in the Hufflepuff dorms with two names on it as it sunk into the floor below.

John threw the briefcase onto his bed in a fit of anger but its softness relented without any fuss and it only left John unsatisfied. He turned his attention to the boy who hadn’t even looked up when he entered, “You’re a right prat, d’you know that?”

Sherlock’s grin was immediate, dominating his face even before he looked up from the same textbook he had been reading since last night, “Whatever do you mean?”

He was looking for a fight, a right good _row_ , to help him release some of the tension that was causing his blood to nearly burst out of every pore, “You just can’t let me try to do it myself, can you?”

Sherlock’s smile dropped, “You performed the spell all on your own. Even Flitwick recognized your abilities by awarding Hufflepuff ten points for your exemplary-”

John interrupted him, “But you _helped_ me, Sherlock, _again_. Like _always_.”

Sherlock rose slowly, his eyes locked into John’s, “You’re upset… Something happened at lunch. Someone spoke to you… a Gryffindor-”

John felt the rage start to bubble over at Sherlock’s nosiness, “That’s what people _do_ , Sherlock, talk-”

To John’s credit, he stayed firmly in place, with his back to the door to their room, even as Sherlock’s long strides invaded into his personal space, “But she didn’t _just_ talk to you; she insulted you and you let her get to you.” Sherlock’s voice dropped lower with every passing syllable as his eyes sought more of John’s experience at lunch, ‘Yes, I remember that little half-blood from the train, the girl with skin the colour of milked tea.”

John averted his gaze, staring hard at Sherlock’s chest, “That isn’t the point-”

**“DON’T LOOK AWAY FROM ME!”**

John was stunned, stars showing in his vision as his head collided with the wall of their room. Sherlock’s left hand was a vice on John’s jaw to force his face up and their eyes to meet; he didn’t dare spare a glance at the wand he saw pointed at him in Sherlock’s other hand. John tried to call out Sherlock’s name but the boy’s grip was bruising and had John’s lips and teeth clenched together painfully. John felt it then, in between the pounding in his head and the coiling in his stomach:

_Fear._

Sherlock released him and John slid down the wall as the strength in his legs abandoned him. John brought a hand to cradle his face just as he looked up at Sherlock and froze because what he saw was an expression John couldn’t imagine ever-

And then Sherlock was leaving: the door to their room was sliding down and Sherlock was practically flying out of the room.

John scrambled to his feet, tripping on the hem of his robe and cursing as he heard it tear under his shoe. John was just getting into the hallway as he saw the tail of Sherlock’s own robe disappear around the corner at the end of the tunnel leading to the common room.

“Sherlock!” John tried to make his voice reach where his body couldn’t, “I’ll- I’ll see you at Potions!”

He didn’t.


	18. Year One

“Even _I_ thought you would have lasted longer than three days.”

Sherlock took five steps into the personal study before dropping to one knee on the thick rug with his wand hand splayed flat onto the stone floor in front of it, “Father.”

“As much as it pleases me to see you so obedient, I know it isn’t out of any sense of filial piety. Get up.” 

Sherlock stayed put, even as Loti closed the door behind her on her way out and even as he heard the glass come back down onto his father’s desk.

“My, my, my, who knew that little Mudblood would be the one to make you so subservient.”

“I have a request.” 

“Oh? I don’t recall receiving the payment for when you requested Loti.” Sherlock fought against the instinctual response to tense when he heard the leather of Father’s chair whisper as he stood, “I’m not one who likes to be owed from those who cannot pay.”

“I am willing to offer whatever-” Sherlock had to bite his tongue as the heel of his father’s boot came down onto his fingers.

“I already own you, _son_. What can you offer me that isn’t already mine? That I cannot already take?”

Sherlock grit his teeth and took measured breaths between every word, “I’ll make an Unbreakable-”

His father’s laugh had a chill running down Sherlock’s spine despite the warmth of the study, “And give you a way to threaten me with your own life in some childish act of rebellion? I am not one of your moronic professors, son. I would not have, so easily, given what you had, so clearly, wanted with that little show.” His father’s voice hardened, “They would think mere children so bold as to destroy _my_ property? No one but my own would dare such an act of open disrespect for my name.” His father’s boot let up from his hand and Sherlock swallowed the whine of relief back down his throat. He watched his father’s boots cross over to the armchair beside the fireplace, “You aren’t me but you are _my son_ so it is to be expected that you get what you want if you actually bother to put effort into getting it. Even if what you wanted to achieve was something as humiliating as becoming a Hufflepuff.” His father sighed with the full capacity of his lungs, “It has been so _hard_ to get you to show ambition towards _anything_ that I was willing to let you get away with such a disgrace to my name.” Sherlock inwardly cringed at the disappointment in his father’s voice. “And to think, it was all because a little Muggle boy wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Sherlock didn’t dare speak. He wanted to, Merlin did he want to. He was on the verge of collapsing from the stress of what he knew would happen to him once he actually told his father what it was he wanted. But he also knew his father and he knew that, right now, if Sherlock made any sort of move to try to hurry him, push him one way or another, he would get vehemently denied out of a sense of distrust towards whatever end Sherlock was trying to lead him towards. Ulterior motive or not.

And so Sherlock knelt on that hard floor covered with plush rugs that did little to stop him from remembering his knee was on unyielding stone and waited.

“Do you know why I chose your mother, Sherlock?” Sherlock didn’t so much as breathe in response. “I chose her not only because she was a Seer with great renown but because she wasn’t British. Although her family is well respected in their own country, they have little influence in matters here. No ties she can pull on should she find herself in too undesirable a position. Territory, Sherlock. Power and control only exist within one’s own territory. If you make grand moves towards obtaining either outside of it you run the risk of encountering resistance from whoever’s you’re in and you will lose whatever you once had if you aren’t the better.”

Sherlock felt his father’s gaze on him, he always knew when those cold eyes settled onto his body, and nodded once. 

“Tell me, son: what is it you _desire_?”

__

_**~~*~~** _

John Watson hated all of them. Well, very nearly all of them. Mike and Molly had both been friendly and warm to him even as he tried to glare and ignore everyone. It had proven wholly ineffective against the both of them and he was forced to relent enough so he wouldn't always sit alone in classes or at meals. Accepting Greg had taken more time, quite a bit more, though that was because John had taken everything Sherlock had said about him and prefects and Heads and professors and practically chanted it like a mantra to keep himself in a perpetual state of resentment and fierce determination.

Everyone else, though, could piss _right_ off.

But, even as much as he hated every other wizard in the world, he hated himself more because the only one he knew he would never find any hatred for still hadn’t come back to him. And it was all John’s own fault. He didn’t know how he could fix it, make it up to Sherlock in a way that would have him come back but John worked _hard_ at becoming everything Sherlock had tried telling him that he was and what others insisted he wasn’t. 

Days of spells, some more successful than not, passed by until they became weeks of written work before exams and then the term was over and John couldn’t show Sherlock the results of his hard work because he _still_ hadn’t come back. 

Most students returned back home to their families; first years more than any other as it was many of their first times away from home for so long and so, alone, John puttered around Hogwarts. He marveled at the Christmas decorations despite his bouts of depression and sorrow and loneliness because he wasn’t going to go to his parents’ house and he definitely wasn’t going to go to the bedsit the Ministry offered their wards during the breaks between school terms.

So it only made sense John was quite annoyed when McGonagall came to him during the first meal of the new year to bring him to her office. He had been _very_ good about controlling himself when people had more openly picked on him ever since his only friend left Hogwarts. He had sat down and kept his teeth together even though a number of them quite deserved more than what he knew how to do with his wand. He had also been very careful not to draw anymore attention to himself as he had no other option in life now other than to make this whole wizarding world thing _work_.

And, so, it was completely reasonable John cried when McGonagall handed him the second letter in his life, telling him he was no longer a ward of the Ministry as he had officially been adopted by the Holmes family, because _Sherlock_ hadn’t been the one to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of the year as far as this part of their story is concerned.
> 
> If you decided to make it this far, thank you!


End file.
